


Living In the Red

by RowanD



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Romance, Uber
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-06
Updated: 2016-01-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 07:07:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 28,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4737266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RowanD/pseuds/RowanD
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regina Rossi is an internationally successful fashion designer.  She has it all, right?  Or maybe she doesn't realize how broken she has become until a stranger appears in the night and flips her world upside down.  Outlaw Queen AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
> 
> Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7, wordgypsy (and to Amilyn for trying:)).

Copyright (c) 2015

**Prologue**

_He is standing ten feet before her. The distance is deeper and more vast than the ocean lapping at their bare feet._

_How could the world collapse on itself in the space of a spoken word?_

_She knows the truth of this. She has felt it too many times, before. She knows a truck driven too fast, with too much hurt and anger and fear, can smash a vibrant life to blood and bones on a city highway in less than a breath. She knows a spark of magic can grow inside her and light the spark of the world or snuff out in an instant. She knows a curse and a safety net and an old habit held onto too long can drop her into freefall with a single final heartbeat._

_She should not be surprised. That just when she had begun to feel the life returning to her limbs, when she had caught a tiny glimpse of belief in the woman she used to be, life would grab her by the throat and clutch and pull until she could no longer draw air. She knows. She has always known._

_The surf roars in her ears, soothing and numbing and painful in a tangled rush._

_"Go," she says at last, her voice ragged and torn, but commanding all the same. She shakes her head, lost for stronger words._

_Robin stares her down in the darkness. "Regina, please... You're right, you're completely right, and I'm completely wrong, but just...just, please, let me talk. Please...give me a chance. You owe me that much. You owe us that much."_

_She swallows hard. His voice is lilting and soft and beautiful and it is tarnished, it is all dark and poisoned, and she feels sick and cold. "No." The word bites like the wind, the bitterness of fresh wounds infusing her tone. "I want you gone. Tonight."_

_Robin takes a steps toward her, hand swinging out, palm raised, and Regina takes a reflexive step back. The pain that cuts through his gentle eyes, the lines at the corners that crinkle in a flinch, these things almost break her. But she cannot, she cannot allow this._

_"Regina, I know you're hurt. You've every right to be. And I know you think that...," he shakes his head, a near desperate expression clouding his elegant features as he stares out over the water, seeming to seek a nameless salvation to appear from the night. "But you can't just--"_

_"I can," she says, voice stronger and harder than the trembling she feels in her legs and her chest. "It's my house, and I want you gone."_

_"Please..._ Bella.. _.," he whispers._

_The endearment breaks her. "Don't you dare." She stares at him for a wild moment, breathing like she's been for a run, like she's been in a fight. The wind ravages her hair and she grasps and pulls to keep it out of her vision. "How could you?"_

_He stares at her, blue eyes aching, and she just wants to run, tax her body to match her breath, run down the beach into the darkness and never stop. She takes another step back and watches his brow furrow and knot. "I'm going to walk the rest of the way up the beach," she says, each word a careful and concerted effort. "Then I'll walk back to the cottage. And you'll be gone. The last ferry is in 40 minutes. Be on it."_

_Robin's desperation morphs toward anger, and he takes two quick steps toward her, face contorting with a mix of pain and unbridled fury. "No! I won't leave you, this is not about--"_

_Emotions jump like electric currents, and her own pain flares and burns into shouting desperation. "Yes, it is! That's all it ever was! Take this..." With fumbling fingers, Regina reaches beneath her wind-tossed hair and works the lock of her diamond pendant. She hurls the jewel toward the sand at Robin's feet. "That's $15,000, on a bad day."_

_Robin's hand presses to his forehead and his eyes close like he wants to unsee every bit of the scene playing before him. "God, Regina, stop," he says, and it's like his quiet voice is willing the world into silence._

_But she won't hear it. She is working the stubborn clasp at her left wrist. Fisting the wind-chilled treasure, Regina pitches the diamonds and rubies into the sand beside the necklace. "$10,000 more. Take it all. I don't fucking care. Just...vanish from my life."_

_She turns and runs. She wants to walk, wants to be controlled and distant and cold, but she can't, she just can't. He might follow, and she has to get away, as far away from him as she can. She hears his voice calling after her, carrying on the wind and over the water, but the sound only makes her run harder._

_She is far down the beach, not even certain where she is, when her steps slow to a walk, then to a stop. Every inch of her aches, adrenaline throbbing in her muscles. Her stomach cramps and her head spins. She props her hands on her knees, then with ragged breaths, she wilts to sit on the sand on the empty beach. Lights flicker in the distance, far back from the shore. But she is sheltered in darkness and the roar of the surf. Everything inside her feels as dark and alone as the moonless night. It is only when her rough gasps for breath begin to slow that the pulls for air turn to shaking sobs and her view of the seawater blurs with tears. In the end, Regina Rossi curls on the sand, her dark waves of hair dragging through smooth stones and silt, and she cries. Because the man who made her face everything she lost, and slowly and quietly gave her moments of hope for something to gain, has taken it all away and left her ripped defenseless and ice-filled and alone._

_She stares up at the few visible stars in the blackened sky._

_"Henry," she whispers into the night. "Henry's waiting at home. Henry's waiting at home." She repeats the words like a mantra. She holds onto the memory of his small, bright, and freckled smile like a beacon tethering her to the shore._

*****

End Prologue


	2. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: In this story, the character of Regina Rossi is a fan of the shoes and clothing of designers Dolce & Gabbana, just as I have long been. If you follow the news, you no doubt have heard the small-minded idiocy this duo has been publicly spouting of late. The references to Dolce & Gabbana in this story DO NOT in any way indicate support or tolerance of such ridiculous views. This story was begun just BEFORE these gentlemen's boneheadedness hit the press, and though I debated removing the references from this piece, in the end I had to be true to the story as it was created, and in any time period prior to right this second, this character would have been a fan, the stye is just unavoidably appropos, and I wanted to acknowledge the truth of that. But just to be clear, neither I, the author, nor Regina Rossi, the character, is implying ANY kind of support for their philosophy, ONLY their apparel. Nor are we throwing any actual money their direction (as if I ever could have afforded it, anyway).

Copyright (c) 2015

**Chapter 1**

 

 _"I grow weary of this struggle and this fight_  
_The morning's so far off from out here in the night"_  
\--Alexi Murdoch, 'Crinan Wood'

 

THREE MONTHS EARLIER

 

The champagne bubbles tickle her nose and for the briefest moment she is on her back in that ancient pick-up truck, traces of grass in her teeth, her first tastes of alcohol on her tongue, the stale smell of straw in her nostrils, and the cold steel pressing her skin as they devour one another by starlight; away from the city, away from prying eyes, away from everything but each other.

Then she is back in her living room, hurled into the present like a muted and paused film sprung to life. Voices and the rush of movement around her. Music flooding from the Bose speakers installed with acoustic perfection around her penthouse. She demands nothing less than perfection, in all things. She is Regina Rossi, world famous fashion designer, and she throws the best parties in the West Villiage. She deserves nothing less.

Some days she believes this.

Regina twists in her cushioned chair, drapes her bare legs over the arm rest, crossing her ankles and letting her skirt fall back to show off her slender form like she is posing for a magazine shoot. She does not miss the eyes that pause in their revelry to trace the length of her body and the thrill in her guts is short-lived but keenly pleasurable. She is wearing her own work tonight. A bodice-hugging black gown with a sweetheart neckline and soft, pale grey chiffon halter straps, a curve-draping skirt with a high thigh slit, and a translucent shawl that regularly falls from her shoulders to rest at the crooks of her elbows. A pair of drop pearl and diamond earrings and a narrow gold tennis bracelet serve as the only adornments to the ensemble

She has been letting her hair grow this summer. Tonight her dark locks fall in loose, layered waves around her shoulders, her bangs having lengthened until they hang in seductive and flattering curves about her face.

She knows how to be considered beautiful. She is less certain how to feel so.

Regina twists her ankle, allowing the gold scripted flowers tracing the toes of her black Dolce & Gabbana heels to flicker in the atmospheric light. Her home is filled, tonight, with The Beautiful People who live and work in her world, some of whom would grovel at her feet for a moment's exposure on her runway. She is not certain she knows a single genuine fact about any one of her guests.

Except Graham. Perhaps Graham.

Or perhaps that is the lynchpin in the grandest of lies.

Regina takes another sip of her champagne and seeks out the younger man's gaze across the room. Her little leg-revealing maneuver has succeeded in catching his attention. Good to know she has not lost that power over him, entirely. He hovers by her fireplace, leaning one shoulder with easy elegance against the carved mantle, chatting up some underaged and anorexic model. His gaze drifts with some regularity as he speaks, losing eye contact with the little flirt and sliding along Regina's brazenly exposed form.

Regina grants the man a light smirk, cocks an eyebrow, then turns her gaze back toward the picture windows to wait.

The view is no less breathtaking for all the times she has laid eyes upon it. The party has already run into the early hours, but New York is well and truly the city that never sleeps. The lights shine brighter and more numerous than the stars, a manmade sea of enchantment, beautiful regardless of the corruption and pain and promise existing beneath its glossy presence. Regina feels a deep-veined kinship with this city.

"You're looking particularly lovely this evening, boss lady."

His Irish accent does pleasurable things to the nerves just beneath her skin. Regina indulges a small self-satisfied smile over her champagne, before responding to the knuckles brushing gently at the back of her neck with a low hum in her throat. Graham still takes privileges without question.

She waits for him to sink to a crouch beside her shoulder before she deigns to turn her gaze to his. "Likewise," she says simply. She grants him a cursory sweep of his figure.

His mouth curls into a genuine smile, revealing half-hidden dimples behind his scruff of a two-day beard. He has the gift of being manly and hot and boyishly charming all at once. She likes his disorganized reddish locks that always tease at his eyebrows, his wide eyes, his slender but strong physique. She likes his long fingers and the way he can play her like an ivory keyboard.

"And how are you enjoying your evening," she purrs, close enough for her breath to brush his cheek.

He cocks his head, lets his gaze dip to her lips for a brief moment before once again meeting her eyes. "You always give the best parties," he says with a light twist of his lips.

"Mmm. With all the prettiest girls," she simpers, lids half lowered and eyebrow lifted. She knows the comment is beneath her. A woman of her status should not be fighting for attention with a child.

To his credit Graham gives an easy chuckle. "Is the boss lady jealous of the prom queen?" he teases.

Regina gives a one-shouldered shrug and lets her gaze sink to the dregs of her champagne. "Maybe just thinking you could do better."

"Oh, that I can, my lady," he counters as his fingers move from the back of her chair to tangle in the tails of her hair.

Regina slowly lifts her dark gaze to meet his pale one in the golden light. She is caught between sinking into his touch and pulling away. "And was that your plan? Lure in the Queen with the little Princess?" She bites down on all the adjectives with which she wants to qualify "Princess."

The light that enters his eyes is annoyingly endearing. "Aw, my darling, I have other ways of luring in the prize catch of the party." Warm fingertips slide through her hair, caress the base of her skull. She wants to remain aloof and not show herself so easy a target for his charms, but the tender touch is sending goosebumps down her midriff and his scent is heavy and rich with sensory memory. He leans in and she fights to at least hold her ground and not respond in kind until his lips meet hers. The first kiss is light and careful, asking permission, and she appreciates that. She appreciates that a lot. So, she leans just the slightest bit toward him, inviting the second kiss. Graham knows her well enough to understand he has been granted allowance, and she feels it strongly in the lust of the second kiss. They are a little bit on display. Her, sprawled a bit wantonly in her lounge chair, the last of her champagne balanced in her hand, her skirt slit sliding wide; kissing like horny teenagers in a shadowy corner of the school dance. This is a private party, and Regina has done her best to keep out the press, but this is the age of cell phone cameras and zoom lenses, and they are on display in her picture window.

She finds she doesn't give a fuck, tonight. She cups a possessive hand to the back of Graham's neck, enjoys the strong muscles working beneath her fingers.

Graham's tongue plays with hers, his own drink abandoned on the floor so he can rest an open hand on her upper chest. The gesture is as much warm and comforting as it is arousing, at least for Regina.

She allows the kissing to continue for a few good minutes, losing herself in sensation and letting the flutters of excitement dancing through her body loosen her tense muscles. When at last they break for air, faces still close and champagne-infused breath mingling, she offers him a playful smirk and quips, "You're flirty, this evening."

Graham brushes his nose against hers in something approaching an Eskimo kiss. "The question is," he says, drawing out the words to pull out her thoughts, "what am I flirting with?"

She considers him for a moment, then says, "You don't know by now?"

A slight frown glances across Graham's countenance, but then it's gone, and Regina decides to let it go. She leans in to brush her lips every so lightly against his. Not really kissing. Tempting. Teasing. It's not long until he takes the bait, and his lips seal onto hers, hard.

Their heart rates are up by the next time they break. Graham's eyelids have sunk, heady and desirous. "Shall we take this elsewhere?" he says, words soft enough now for only her to hear.

For a split second, Regina draws a breath to say, "yes." To invite him back into her bedroom, to abandon her guests (it wouldn't be the first time), and lose herself in someone else for a couple of hours. Hell, maybe just in lust and a good fuck. It's been a while, and she knows Graham is getting restless. She has given him no explanation for the lengthy dry spell. None that holds water, anyway.

But in the grip of the pivotal moment, she finds she cannot do it. And she doesn't even know why. The kissing feels good, the closeness, the comfort, and she is loath to cause it to stop. Graham is familiar and safe and attentive. But she just cannot summon the needed conviction within herself to take this man to her bed.

Regina offers Graham an appreciative smile, strokes a tender hand down his bristly cheek, and purrs, "Mmm...maybe not tonight, Gorgeous. Hmm?"

The cold hits the moment the words are out of her mouth, and she almost wants to take them back. Graham's eyes narrow, his jaw tensing beneath her lingering touch, and Regina feels the familiar clench in her guts, a sharp contrast to the recent warmth of pleasure. How many days, how many hours can they pretend, pretend their interactions are not tainted with a sickening falsehood?

Regina's foundations are shaking. Things to which she once clung fall hollow and slippery from her grasp.

Graham gives a single nod, and says only, "Right," as he pushes to his feet. He doesn't meet her eyes.

"Graham," Regina placates, grasping for his hand as she swings her legs to sit herself straight in the chair. "Don't be...I didn't mean..."

"No, it's fine," he says, shaking loose of her grip. He downs the last of his drink in one big swallow. "Don't let me keep you from you other guests." He walks away.

Regina just deflates, all the fight draining out of her like water dripping onto the floor. She wants to speak, but she has no idea what she could say to stop this man from leaving her behind.

She stays in her chair a while longer, offering polite smiles or chit-chat to those who pass, but if she is honest with herself, she is more brooding than luxuriating, now. She drinks one more glass of champagne. Graham goes back to the woman-child by the hearth, shouldering his way back into the place another young buck has tried to take from him, and watching him like this, an ex-model sucking up to the fresh meat, she thinks Graham really is such a child. Regina feels uncharacteristically old.

She lasts another half hour of mingling, then she retreats to her bedroom.

*****

A locked door between her and the continuing party, Regina makes her way through her darkened bedroom, her carefully adorned and spacious sanctuary, and she slides back the glass doors that open onto the balcony. She lets her shawl cascade into her waiting hand and tosses it vaguely in the direction of her bed as she steps out into the night. She pulls her phone from its nest down the front of her dress and sets it on the glass deck table.

The cool evening air is both bracing and a little disorienting as she leaves the shelter of her penthouse. This party was supposed to inspire, reawaken a few stale connections, jar her back into action and productivity. But here in the dark, she feels less connected than ever.

She loved this apartment so much when she first moved in. She still does, most days. Memories good and bad are painted into the walls and floors. But she loves it more when she is alone, or just with intimate family and friends. On nights like tonight, the front rooms feel more like her office than her home.

The city seems extraordinarily alive, tonight, and Regina draws a much needed strength from its quivering glow. Vibrating with energy and light and passion and sound. Regina is drawn toward the railing, slides her hands over the cool metal and breathes in the turbulent air.

3am in New York City. The world stretches before her. The ocean not so far away, the wide world, beyond. She has been to Paris, Milan, Barcelona. Rio, Rome, Bangladesh. She finds she has very little idea who she is in the whole mess, who she once was, who she might want to be. She thought she knew, but this past year has thrown her off her comfortable perch, and she finds after these many months she is losing the passion and drive to sort it all out.

A heavier gust of wind rushes Regina's skin and flutters her shawl like a cluster of wings beating around her. There is something hypnotic and alluring in the wild sensation. The air feels like roaring water, like a feather bed, like an inviting oblivion. Regina turns her hips and lifts one knee, balancing gracefully on the smooth railing, only one heeled foot remaining on the solidity of the balcony. She closes her eyes and lets the wind wash over her, the sound drowning out the last remnants of voices carrying in from the party. She could be anywhere in the moment. She could be anyone. She could erase it all.

Images from her memory rush past her mind's eye. On a swing hanging from the tree behind her childhood home. Lifting her young son onto the seat of that same swing, a wide smile reddening his chubby cheeks. Riding in her best friend's car at sixteen years old, holding her arm out the window in the pounding wind and imagining just driving, across the bridge and out into the world and never stopping, never looking back. Sprawled across her king-sized silk sheets in a streak of warm sun, Graham sliding up between her legs, fingers teasing the inside of her thigh.

The wind rises and shifts direction, and Regina opens her eyes to steady her balance, but the champagne is catching up with her without warning, and the lights blur and streak around her. She moves her weight and grasps at the railing, but a sharp cry escapes her lips as the heel of her hand fails to find purchase, sliding into air, and adrenaline shoots through her when a moment's self-indulgence turns in a heartbeat to a fight for her life. _Oh God..._

The instant and solid brace of the arm that locks around Regina's waist is startling and terrifying and the most welcome and reassuring sensation Regina has ever felt.

"Oh, my God!" Her words are broken and hoarse, and she stumbles to find her feet on the tile beneath her as she is lifted and pulled several feet from the edge of the balcony. She pushes at the arm around her waist, struggling to catch a glimpse of her savior and captor as her hair flies wildly in the wind, denying her view. Her heart races, her stomach hot with fear and fight or flight. "What the hell?? _Who are you?_ " she shouts.

The arm clasping her softens its hold, gradually releasing her as if testing her stability before leaving her to stand on her own. The moment she secures freedom of movement, Regina whirls on her intruder and takes a wide step backward, hand moving protectively to her midriff where the strange touch pressed so close.

As the wind settles and Regina gathers her tousled locks, the figure before her comes into slow focus in the dim light. Who the hell?

"My apologies," the man says softly.

Regina stands staring at a stranger, as far as her memory will serve. And she is fairly certain she would have remembered this man. He looks to be near her age or a few years older, an inch or two above her height, even with the addition of her party heels. His sandy close-cropped beard and mildly preppy haircut gave him the elegantly rugged look of a model in an outer wear commercial or a men's cologne layout. His manor of dress is distractingly odd, entirely black and a strange mix of sleek and casual, finished off with heavy boots and a turtleneck on this warm summer night. But it is his eyes that confuse her already scrambled thoughts. Blue-grey and clear, even in the shadows, narrowed and appraising, looking into her like she is a book to be devoured.

"Who are you?" she repeats, still holding her hair back from her face, frowning and panting from the rush of adrenaline. She is fighting a wave of nausea as the fear stirs her stomachful of champagne. Has she eaten anything tonight?

"Your savior, it would seem," the stranger replies, his voice an indecipherable mixture of sarcasm and calm. The accent, though...English. He is English.

"What?" It's all she can manage to say.

"If you wanted to end your charmed existence, there are more pleasant and less messy ways than a fall from a penthouse balcony."

His meaning finally clicks in Regina's scrambled head, and she pulls herself up straighter, hand propping on her hip. "Excuse me? No. I wasn't...I slipped. I had no intention of..." She closes her eyes again for half a breath. She had no intention of...she had...she had no intention...

She meets the stranger's gaze and he is still studying her, head slightly cocked and eyes narrowed. There is an air of annoyance about him...of...being inconvenienced, that raises her hackles.

"So, you weren't contemplating throwing yourself off the balcony?" he retorts.

"No! Of course not!" An almost squeaking vehemence colors her tone. She takes a moment of breathing, swallowing, and brings her rising voice better under control as she stammers, "I wasn't...I just...I've had a lot of champagne. I didn't...realize how much. I got dizzy, that's all." She really is still feeling sick.

"That's all," the man parrots, clearly unconvinced.

Regina's frown deepens, irrationally annoyed at her unidentified savior -- whom she has not even taken a moment to thank -- for his lack of trust in her word. " _That's all,_ " she states firmly. "I would never...I...I have a son."

Her last words seem to trigger a shift in the man before her that momentarily distracts her from the chaos whirling through her head. The stranger blinks and Regina catches a flash of more genuine emotion behind his guarded gaze. "You have a son?" he asks, voice softer, but no easier to read.

Regina nods. "Yes. He's eleven. I wouldn't...I wouldn't leave him, I'm...it's just the two of us." She has no idea why she is revealing any of this. She isn't even sure she understands what is happening, anymore.

The man glances toward the darkness of her bedroom, toward the door with the light around it and the sounds of continuing revelry. "Is he here?"

Regina scoffs. "At this party? Hardly. But he...I mean, he lives here. Normally. He's just...away right now."

The annoying smirk returns to the stranger's expression accompanied now by mildly arrogant amusement and this only deepens her own resentful scowl. "On a business trip, is he?" the man quips.

Regina bristles. "Not that it's any of your business, but he's away at music camp. He plays the violin and he's really quite gifted."

"Hmm." The man slides his hands into his pockets, and glances out over the city for a moment, seeming restless and uncomfortable for the first time since this absurdity began.

That actually makes her feel better, or at least on more equal ground.

"Who are you?" she asks, again. "What's your name?"

"Robin," the man replies, after only the briefest hesitation. "My name is Robin Archer."

"I didn't see you come in the door, Robin Archer. I don't remember putting you on my guest list."

His eyebrows lift, and some of the snarky smirk revives. "You don't? I hear you have had a fair amount of champagne, so..."

That straightens Regina's spine and she lets go of her hair. "I suggest you lower your level of superiority and remember you are in _my_ bedroom right now, without my permission."

Robin tilts his head in acquiescence. "Apologies, my lady. Right you are, I spoke out of turn."

She can't decide if he is being sincere or if she is being toyed with, so she merely continues to scowl in his direction without speaking. Then at last, she says, "This is my bedroom. What are you doing, here?"

"I meant no intrusion. I was merely seeking a moment's quiet. I suspect you can understand that."

After another beat of strange and confusing silence, her intruder adds, "Do you, um...do you plan to come back inside?"

Regina blinks, frowns. "What? Why?"

"Well, I just..." Robin rocks back on his heels, hands deep in his pockets. "To be honest, I'd rather...leave you a bit farther from the edge of the balcony. When I go. Champagne or...otherwise."

"There's no 'otherwise'." Regina reiterates, but she is highly dissatisfied by the weakness of her tone.

Robin shrugs. "In any case," he says, simply.

Regina swallows and her throat muscles are stiff, but her voice is not unkind when she says, "I think I'll stay out here for a bit, thank you."

He nods. "Suit yourself, then."

Her phone suddenly buzzes, unexpectedly loud on the frosted glass tabletop. The vibration migrates the device precariously near the edge, and Robin reaches out and catches the small prize before it can fall.

Regina finds herself watching the scene dumbly, incapable of initiating movement.

"A bit of excess of gravity round here tonight, yes?" Robin asks with an almost hesitant glance her way. There is a fresh softness to his tone, and the nausea flares again in Regina's stomach, creeping up her throat, because she's forty stories up, and whatever the reason, she did, in fact, almost fall. She did. _Christ..._

"Apparently," is all the reply she can muster.

Robin offers her a brief, but, seemingly sincere, smile. "Perhaps tomorrow will be better."

An incredulous laugh slips from Regina's lips. _Cliché much?_ After a moment, she says, "Are you...are you staying at the party?"

Robin wrinkles his nose. "I think I've had my fun for the night. Lovely party, of course, but..." He takes a step back, and sets her phone gently back on the table. She hadn't realized he still had it in his hand. He nods politely in her direction. "Good night, Ms. Rossi."

Robin is halfway through the open door into her bedroom, when Regina says, "Mr. Archer?"

He turns, eyebrows raised expectantly.

"I...thank you." She is not usually one to stumble over her words. But it seems she is stumbling over everything, tonight.

Robin gives a slight shake of his head and something passes across his countenance that Regina cannot quite identify. "Nothing to thank me for, I assure you."

Then before she can speak the question hovering on her lips, the man vanishes into the shadows.

*****

The apartment is eerily quiet in the aftermath of the revelry.

Regina walked through the remainder of the night hardly hearing her own spoken pleasantries, barely aware of whose hand she was brushing or whose cheek she was kissing. The last guest has vacated the premises. For once, no one is left passed out on the couch or draped half-conscious over an armchair. She is truly alone in her private sanctuary. The faintest of glows through the picture window speaks of a fast-approaching dawn.

For a supposedly high class crowd, the refuse left behind after these events never ceases to amaze her. She already scheduled a cleaning crew for tomorrow afternoon. Regina slips out of her high heels and gently stretches her arches as she lowers her bare heels to the floor. Hooking her shoes on two fingers, she pads slowly about the main room. In Cincinnati or Kansas City, this would be a pleasingly upscale apartment. In the West Village, this is an almost obscene amount of space for two people.

The Great Room takes up most of the space. The massive area is divided into seating areas by interior design; a grouping around the fireplace, another in a far corner meant as a sort of reading nook with an assortment of long-necked and art deco adjustable lamps, a third grouping on the righthand wall centered around the television and gaming systems. The latter resides within a locked cabinet her guests cannot reach, to keep her son from hyperventilating every time a guest wanders near his treasures.

An archway off to the left of the entrance opens onto the formal dining room. The counter blocks off the kitchen to the right, complete with marble surfaces and a refrigerator that does all but cook for you. Regina actually likes to cook, when she gets the chance.

The hallway beside the gaming area leads back to her bedroom, Henry's room, a guest room, and her work room.

Regina stands alone amidst all this elegance and closes her eyes in the quiet. And suddenly, she is feeling the weariness of more than a night of drinking and noise and partying. She meant to shower and wash off her make-up and change clothes and... Instead, she finds her feet carry her across the room. She turns off lights as she passes, she pads down the dark hall and into her room. She closes the still open balcony door, moving by only the light from the street, pulls off her dress and lets it fall in a heap on the floor. She crawls across her king-sized bed, still in her lace underthings, and slides beneath the silk sheets. She think she is too scrambled and knotted to sleep, but it turns out exhaustion and alcohol are her friends tonight, and this little cloud she is tucked into feels like heaven. She has hardly settled in, eyes on the lights of the building across the street, when her vision blurs and she succumbs to unconsciousness, remembering nothing more until far after the sunrise.

*****

End Chapter 1


	3. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DISCLAIMER: "Once Upon a Time" and all its wonderful characters belong to ABC and Adam Horowitz and Edward Kitsis, etc.. I borrow them only with love.
> 
> Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
> 
> Author's Note A (the more relevant one LOL): Thank you to everyone who has taken an interest in the launch of this story! I am going to try to be really strict with myself about updates. My goal is to shoot for the two to three week mark and to never go more than month. I will try my best not to let life get too much in the way of that. This chapter was originally meant to carry you through Robin and Regina's first "date", but there was a lot more involved in setting up the scenario than I estimated, so in order to keep the chapters relatively uniform in length (she says optimistically before they bloom way out of hand later) and to get this update out on time, you get only brief interaction in this chapter and get to dive headlong into their date in the next chapter.:)
> 
> Author's Note B (the one that had to be said): After I posted Chapter 1, a Guest left a comment accusing me of intolerance for denying Dolce&Gabbana the right to their own views (I deleted the comment, simply because the poster made further remarks that showed he or she had not even read my entire note before flaming me). My issue is not with their right to their opinions on biomedical practices or family morals (I may disagree, but their right to a differing view is something I would defend). My issue is with them hurting children. Disagreeing with how a family is created is one thing, but calling the innocent children already conceived by those methods "synthetic" is reprehensible. The issue behind the act, and whether or not I agree, does not matter. If the topic were rape, something we can pretty universally agree is WRONG, to call an innocent child born out of rape an abomination would be utterly intolerable. So, Guest, if you are saying I am intolerant of people who would shame, hurt, or disparage an innocent child, then I will proudly accept that label. Now, back to fandom squee.:)

Copyright (c) 2015

 

Chapter 2

 _"Am I out of touch? Am I out of my place?_  
_When I keep saying that I'm looking for an empty space"_  
-Imagine Dragons, 'Shots'

Regina lifts her head with aching neck muscles, cupping a hand to the base of her skull for support, and squints through the veil of her hair at the clock on the bedside table. 11:37am.

Shit. Clearly, she is getting too old for the party scene. It is nearly noon and she still feels like hell and doesn't want to open her eyes. She was wise to schedule this party while Henry was still away. He would be bouncing on her mattress and begging for pancakes, right about now. Regina tucks her head down, rolls onto her stomach and shifts and stretches beneath the covers. The movement makes her aware of how much of her skin is bared to her silky sheets. At least she isn't naked, and she _is_ alone, so clearly she did not drink enough to have done anything stupid. She remembers being relatively clear-headed and merely drowsy when she crawled into her bed. That must have been the end of her night.

Regina rolls onto her back and shoves the rumpled sheets down to her hips, wanting cool air on her skin. Her bra feels snug and uncomfortable, where she had hardly felt it the night before.

She closes her eyes and a jumble of images flicker across her inner vision. Nameless people, familiar faces, sparkling dresses, champagne, Graham and a vague sense of discomfort, the couple by the dining room making out like teenagers, something with Angelina Jolie playing on the flatscreen, a bowl of popcorn, city lights, the view from the balcony--oh, _fuck_. Regina's eyes snap open, and she stares hard at the ivory-colored ceiling. The balcony. Fuck. She almost fell off the balcony.

Well, that is a first. All those years of worrying about Henry, and...

Regina lifts an arm to sling across her light-sensitive eyes, once again retreating to her inner darkness. "Oh, my God," she whispers. "What the hell are you doing, Regina?" Her life has somehow turned from success beyond her wildest dreams, to something she never meant to live.

Six months ago, life had seemed to make a little more sense.

She hides behind her eyelids for another few minutes, letting her thoughts circle and flit and generally numb her back into peaceful oblivion. But her subconscious sense of time is eating away at her, and she knows she needs to be in motion and starting on her day. Her cleaning lady will be here within an hour or two, griping and moaning as usual about her "childish guests" and "decadent lifestyle". Telling her the city is no place for a young boy to grow up. Regina draws a slow breath and pushes up to a sitting position. She can see the message light twinkling on her phone but she doesn't want to look. Her hand reaches out anyway, because she is a mother and her son is away from her, and ignoring messages is not an option. She doubts she would have slept through an actual phone call, but lots of things have been surprising her, lately.

She scrolls through the notices, squints and continues to pretend she doesn't actually need those reading glasses that are stuffed in that drawer over there. She registers that a couple of the messages are work related and she tries not to look at the content. No work before coffee, not on a weekend. The last notice is the one that makes her smile. A single line of text from Henry. _How was the party?_

Regina stares at the words for a long moment, the cadence of Henry's voice circling like a comfortable warmth in her head. She types back, "Long and messy. A little fun here and there. A Mario Kart night with you would have been better," then punches 'send'.

She tosses her phone to the foot of the bed and slides from the protective cocoon of her blankets. Last night, she hadn't even taken the time to bring her robe over and lay it across the foot of the bed as per her usual habit, so she is left to brave the elements as far as her closet and wonder why from the moment she remembered the incident on the balcony, she hasn't been able to stop thinking about the feeling of that strong arm and the warm body behind her.

*****

Lightly buttered toast and steaming hazelnut coffee are the only things her stomach will accept in the first hours after waking. Regina stands at the breakfast bar, her bare toes curling into the softness of the thick throw rug, silky robe soothing her skin. She lets the warmth from the coffee rise up against her cheeks and nudge her further into consciousness.

It is impressive just how much of a mess supposed adults can leave around her apartment. Her cleaning lady does have a point.

Regina is flipping pages of the New York Times on her tablet and getting involved in a feature article on a campaign to save the historic building currently housing a local elementary school, when the buzz and blare of her cell phone startles her nearly enough to splash hot coffee up her arm. She recovers just in time to avoid injury. The phone is playing "You Can Fly!" from Disney's _Peter Pan_ , which means it is Tatiana, Regina's personal assistant, and in many ways the second in command of Rossi Designs, Inc.. On Tati's first day at the company, Regina teased her about the Tinkerbelle protective case on her iPhone and was told in greatly impassioned terms that Tatiana always believed Tinkerbelle had gotten a bad rap in the media and was a far more intelligent and long-suffering character than most people believed.

Regina stared at her in confused disbelief and never let her forget the outburst since.

She snatches up the phone, now, and clicks the Talk button. "Sunday, Tatiana. It's Sunday morning." Her voice still sounds like she was up half the night, and the exposure in that irks her, even if it does help make her own point.

"Afternoon, in a few minutes," comes the snarky Australian lilt. At least, today, it's snarky. It's usually snarky.

"I have had exactly three sips of coffee. Do not test me. Make this good."

"Can you come into the office for just an hour? We need you in on this." And perky. Annoyingly perky.

"In on what?" Regina grouses. "And what the hell are _you_ doing at the office? Sunday. Morning."

"Hey, somebody has to keep the world running, so you can have your precious Sunday mornings with Henry. But I know for a fact Henry's still not back from camp, so I'm asking you to come in."

"And I'm asking you again -- for what?"

"I don't want to tell you."

Regina lowers her coffee mug to the counter, closes her eyes, and draws a slow breath. She counts to five. "Miss Michaels. What is the business of the day that requires my attention?"

"I'll show you when you get here. Will I see you in an hour?"

"You are aware you work _for me_ , correct?"

"I am, and my job is to encourage what's best for the firm. See you in an hour?"

Regina stalls just long enough to convince herself she is still in control. She will have the final word on how things go. "Fine," she concedes, trying to sound more authoritative than pouty. She hangs up before Tatiana can say another word.

She runs the shower water generously warm to take off the chill of the night's air conditioning. She left the settings cool enough to keep the penthouse comfortable with rooms of tightly packed bodies. A bit cold for one slender woman alone in her bed.

She takes extra time beneath the water, letting the turbulent dreams she cannot quite recall run off of her skin, over her breasts, down her abdomen, along the curve of her hips with the slip-slide of lavender-scented body wash. She still likes the body she inhabits, still luxuriates in her subtle curves and smooth skin. Even after all she has put herself through this past year, even as she begins to see forty looming on the distant horizon. The feather-caresses of lather and water rivulets have her thinking about other things and entertaining the fleeting thought that perhaps she should have gone with the moment and let Graham stay the night. But as much as that choice would have provided temporary distraction and comfort, she is finding herself less and less willing to accept a life of surface pleasures and distraction.

Blood and loss will do that to you.

She snaps her eyes open on the undesirable image of diluted red running down her legs to the floor of this very shower stall, and with a sharp shake of her head, she reaches for her face soap. She finishes up her ablutions with more deliberate direction, then she reaches for a thick burgundy towel before the cool air can assault her damp skin.

Regina's closet is a little obscenely extensive. She writes off her indulgences to a professional obligation, or perhaps a professional hazard. She has always believed that one must live one's reputation. But the truth is, she is a fashion whore. In cold honesty, it is the one thing her mother raised her to be that she took to like a bear to honey, and that is how she landed in this business in the first place. She likes to create an image, paint a picture. She likes to build Regina Rossi from the ground up.

Today, she dresses for strength and confidence, she dresses to pull herself up by her bootstraps and get her ass in gear and her life back together before her son comes home. After all, this was the point of this camp, really. Cora decided her daughter was losing hold on her life and that she needed some space and time to put things back together. She pulled some strings and got Henry into the music camp after the official deadline. And Regina let it happen, because Henry was bubbling over at the thought like it was two days until Christmas. Sometimes, socially connected grandmothers are useful tools. Regina is both resentful of and grateful for her mother's actions. She has never been away from Henry for more than a couple of days at a time and she is still not sure either of them is ready. Over the past two weeks away from her little boy, she has felt both free to breathe, and lost at sea without her trusted anchor. But the goal remains the same -- a month from now, she intends to have her feet solidly beneath her, so when Henry comes home, she can be the mother she was a year ago and not the one she has been these past meandering months.

She emerges from her closet in a fitted blue sundress that falls just above the knee, a white silk scarf tied elegantly at her throat. She chooses the best matching Fuck Me heels she can find on the shoulder high rack beside the bathroom door. Stopping briefly at the floor length mirror by her bed, she fluffs her hair with her fingers, smoothes the edge of her crimson lipstick, and takes in her overall look. Probably a slightly slutty ensemble for a Sunday morning (afternoon?), bearing just the slightest hint of the Walk of Shame, but it is how she feels. This morning, she is about reclaiming control. An outfit like this one makes her feel secure in her own skin. And she wants that. Oh, how she wants that.

Regina is in the upper hallway, about to enter the elevator as the door slides open, when she nearly stumbles over her cleaning lady. "Oh! There you are," she exclaims, too tired and too startled to bother keeping the air of impatience out of her voice. She grabs at the elevator door with a hand to keep it from closing while she speaks to Rose.

Rose is moving at her own leisurely pace across the threshold, hauling the usual post-event cleaning supplies. The woman is in her sixties, grey hair in a disorganized and frizzy bunch on her head, waist a bit too broad, and shoes entirely too practical. Regina actually feels a little badly letting a woman her mother's age clean up after her, but she pays Rose quite well for her time, and as long as the woman is willing to work, Regina feels it is not her place to stop her. The woman cleans well, even if her attitude could use a little adjustment. Regina feels that, karmically speaking, she should really be a little forgiving of that particular flaw.

"Well, I didn't expect you to be much of an early riser, today," Rose says without apology as she sets down the heaviest of her burdens and turns to address her employer.

Regina lifts her eyebrows. "We set a time," she says firmly.

Rose just nods and her implacable nature is infuriating, and Regina starts to wonder if she is really the boss of anyone, anymore. The urge to rant is strong, but she needs to get to the office and get on with her day, because the truth is, she _did_ sleep late, so she closes her eyes and takes a deliberate breath before speaking. "There's a new spot on the dining room carpet that needs attention, the vacuum is in the front closet, and the inside of the refrigerator needs a wipe down."

Rose nods. "Will do."

"I'm going into work, but I should be back in a couple of hours."

Rose just nods again, her people skills as jagged as ever. She gathers up her things.

Regina shrugs and steps onto the semi-private elevator, letting the older woman trudge off toward the penthouse door. She doesn't really like elevators, but they have become a necessary evil in her whirlwind life. Living on the fortieth floor, stairs are not a viable daily option. But she cannot pretend she does not still grow just slightly panicky every time the doors close her into the confined space. She counts down the floors in her head, waiting for the moment of relief when the doors slide open and she is once again safe and free. Even interior hotel rooms without openable windows make her skin crawl. The balcony is what makes her penthouse palatable. Regina craves open air and accessible escape routes.

Graham pinned her against the wall of this very elevator once, long ago. The gesture had been meant to be hot and sexy and charming, and for a half a second it was. Then, the restraint hit her, and she shoved him off with a violence that he never quite understood and maybe never quite forgave. She was embarrassed and felt badly at the hurt in his eyes, but...restraint just was not something she could do, especially not in an already confined space. She smoothed things over by charging at him like an animal, slamming him against the opposite wall and shoving her tongue halfway down his throat. The confusion was hot in his taste, but her thigh hooking on his hip and her skirt riding up to give his hands free access was enough to melt the lingering hesitation into a foggy forgotten past.

The memory sends a shiver down her spine that is a strange mix of apprehension and pleasure. Coffee. She needs more coffee.

The elevator doors slide open and Regina takes the short hall from the private penthouse elevator into the main lobby. She pulls the sunglasses from the top of her head and slips them into place before she has to make eye contact with any more people than necessary. A quick nod to the doorman is more than enough.

The late June day is pleasantly warm. A gentle breeze lifts her hair from her shoulders and caresses her bare arms. She likes the noise and bustle on the street around her. No one wants eye contact, no one wants anything from her but maybe a quick glance down her figure for eye candy (a sensation she generally enjoys from the receiving side), yet she is in the middle of the pulse of life. She decides on the subway over a cab. Some days she just likes to be an ordinary New Yorker. The station is only a block away.

She doesn't need to wait more than five minutes for the next train, the car isn't uncomfortably crowded on a Sunday, and when she emerges from the underground at her destination, climbing the stairs back up to the comforting sunlight, she is only half a block's walk from her office. The studios are housed in a patchwork part of Chelsea where half the buildings are disintegrating and shady, while the rest have been snatched up as trendy renovations and made into elegant old school spaces for creative artists to live or work or teach. She feels at home here, sometimes more so than she does in the penthouse that had once been Leo's as much as hers. Though in his last couple of years before his death, Leopold had spent more and more time at their elegant and prestigious townhouse on the Upper East Side even as she continued to favor the penthouse. She has made it her own in the years since, hers and Henry's.

Her mother still cannot understand why on earth she prefers to live in the West Village.

Regina makes a quick stop at her favorite corner coffee shop, just one building away from her office, and orders an extra tall latte. The barista is not someone she knows well, she is less acquainted with the Sunday staff. But the first sip of her drink is soothing and invigorating and makes her feel far more prepared to take on whatever Tatiana has in store. She slips the security card from the outer pouch of her purse and scans it to open the front doors, punches in her authorization code. The lobby is quiet, like it is when she works late into the night (or, in the days before a big show, sleeps on her office couch).

Regina chose this building almost entirely for its back elevator. That, and the incredible amount of open space and light on the top floor. But the elevator, the one that goes all the way to the top, is so quirky and charming it keeps her from hating every moment she is at its mercy. It is an old school contraption not without its flaws, but with heavy wood lift-gates that have to be manually opened and lowered, and every time she goes in and out she feels like some character in a movie that she has always desperately wanted to be.

This morning, at the top of the ride, she hauls the gate open onto the sprawling space that will be bustling with activity on Monday morning, but for now is devoid of all but two employees besides herself.

Tatiana is on her in a heartbeat.

"There you are!"

"You said an hour, it's been...," Regina slides her phone out of her purse and glances at the time, "52 minutes. That's damned good time to go from my pajamas to Chelsea."

"Come on, we need to talk," Tatiana says, hurriedly, and she leads the way toward the back corner she long ago claimed for her own.

Regina drops her bag onto a work table nearby and follows Tatiana around to the wide desktop and computer where she has clearly been hard at work. Regina takes another sip of her coffee, targeting her brain away from her morning's wandering thoughts and directly onto work. She actually finds the notion of a challenge a welcome distraction, right up until Tatiana says, "Now, let me say this before you shoot me down. I've been talking to Evanna's agent, again."

"No." There is no other response to this.

"Regina, just...listen for half a second."

"No." She simply lifts her eyebrows and gives not an inch of space.

Tatiana frowns and visibly steels herself for battle. Regina resists the urge to roll her eyes. "I know why you hate this idea. I get it. But just hear me out for two seconds."

"No."

"Regina!"

She lifts her chin with an air of regality. "What?" she snaps.

Tatiana turns in her chair to give this her all. Regina is nonplussed by the effort. "We need to choose a model for the concept vid, for the upcoming layouts. We need an image for the new line. Evanna is at the absolute top of her game, right now, and considering the lack of stellar reception of our designs in the past year, it is a small miracle she is considering this job."

Regina scoffs. " _She_ is considering the job? She's 12."

"She's 17, Regina."

"Have you looked at her? She's a child. We are Rossi. She is not considering us. We are considering her. Except we are not. End of discussion."

"Regina...Rossi is one of the best design labels in the world. A top design house by every estimation, no argument. But the top is a precarious place to balance, and we both know that. It's far to fall. And we've been slipping. Evanna's face on your designs would throw us back into the limelight, make us the center of attention with the next generation of buyers. She is an incredibly powerful trend-setter. She is--"

"Tatiana, we have talked about this, you know I will not compromise what this company stands for by--"

"Regina, listen to me." Tatiana pushes back her chair and rises to her feet, placing her on eye level with Regina, and Regina feels her defenses rise, feels her posture straighten to meet the implied challenge. She is glad she chose her lofty heels. "We have lost our edge," Tatiana says boldly. "We're not going to fold, but we're not going to thrive going on the way we have, and you _know_ this. Unless you are content to be relegated to designing upscale office wear for middle-aged executive women and having your lines featured at Macy's or Bloomingdale's in a few years, I suggest you listen to what I am saying to you."

It's a low blow. Regina's temper flares, but she is determined to channel her fury into productive fire, not just rip apart her employee to no gain. Henry would hate that. She has mellowed a little in her years at this company, learned what works and what does not. And maybe what she can stomach. She bites out each word with as much controlled passion as she can harness. "Evanna is an anorexic, sickly child. For my money, she is a junkie, as well. And I will not allow that image to lead the direction of Rossi clothing. Ever."

"Her agent is claiming she's that weight naturally."

Regina barks out an ugly laugh. "That’s bullshit and you know it."

Tatiana just cocks her jaw and holds her ground.

"She is a size zero, Tati. That is not what we do. No one should be a size zero. That means you are nothing. Invisible. We design clothes for healthy, in-shape women. It is what we have always done, and what we will always do, and we have survived on the top runways in the world with that philosophy. An oh-so-rare accomplishment. But that is Regina Rossi. We do not promote plus sizes, nor do we promote zeros. Evanna will not model my clothing."

The stand-off holds for several breaths, drawing the subtle attention of the intern on the other side of the room, before Tatiana backs down. She lowers her gaze, carefully controls her voice and says in soft tones. "Fine. Just offering my advice."

Regina breathes for a moment, slowing her pulse and pacing her thoughts. She knows their philosophy has been an uphill battle. She knows Tatiana's plan would boost their sales. But this is not what she came to this business to do. She has never needed the money, never wanted power for power's sake. Only to have control over her life and what is done to her.

Regina lets her stance soften a bit. "Look," she says, placating as sincerely as she can without an actual apology, which just isn't on her horizon, "our focus needs to be on the spring line. I realize it is idealistic to think the work can stand entirely on its own. I'm not new, here. I've been in this business longer than you have. And I know that also means it has changed as I did. I am fully aware that we sink or swim in the ocean of social media and live streaming. But I built this company by appealing to a particular need in the realm of fashion, and that need still exists. Women around the world are still looking to me to maintain a certain standard of elegance and dignity, and I do not intend to compromise that ideal. I know I have not been contributing...what I normally contribute in the past year, but that is changing. This spring line is going to happen, and it is going to kick ass. And I want your focus in helping us to achieve that goal not to be on how to homogenize and appease the masses, but on making sure we design the most appealing and inspired clothing possible and present the absolute finest of what the Rossi label has to offer. Is that clear?"

Tatiana nods, and Regina knows she is listening as a friend as much as an employee, but Regina does not want that right now. She wants to be pure businesswoman, today, Queen Bitch of Rossi Designs. That is what she knows how to be, and the only way she knows to succeed. She focuses on her posture in these vicious stilettos and turns back to the computer screen. "Now, bring up the latest sketches. I don't like the lack of cohesion in our theme. I don't want to be too narrow in our focus, you know I hate a show wrapped around a single fabric, but we need the line to have a solid voice. We need a clear color theme. We're too diverse, right now."

Tatiana is well-trained to Regina's manner and vocal cues and knows when to take direct instruction and stop being the challenger. That's one of the things Regina likes best about the woman. She doesn't fail now, turning back to the computer and calmly and dutifully bringing up the requested slideshow.

For the next half hour or more they get lost in the work, assessing and brainstorming and coming up with new ideas and fresh approaches. Regina starts to get comfortably lost in the process, her neurons firing, connections sparking, and she loves this, loves the creative process, building an image and lifestyle to present. She is sitting shoulder to shoulder with Tatiana and she is starting to be able to _see_ it, see the vision they need to be heading toward, starts choreographing the fashion concept video in her head.

"And what about accessories for these dresses? Anything? Nothing? Something simple?"

Regina gazes long and hard at the selection of sketches fanned across the broad screen, envisioning the actualized versions, imagining where she wants to draw the observer's eye. "Not much," she says after a long moment of thought. "But a few sparing pieces. A bracelet or two. Maybe a necklace. No more than one piece per ensemble."

"Okay, that sounds like something we can pull together later."

"It is. It's not the focus. No distractions."

"All right. Which brings us to textile designs. I have the new samples Greg sent up. They worked up some promising stuff from your suggestions."

Tatiana is clicking through programs, switching over to bring up the samples and Regina is still thinking about bracelets when her fingers move unconsciously to touch her own wrist, to feel for the bracelet she chose especially to get her through the events of last night, and -- Oh, God. Her gaze snaps hard to her own wrist and finds nothing but bare skin, her fingers fumbling to catch at nothing. "Oh, God," she breathes aloud, and she feels Tatiana glance her way, but she is staring at own her wrist. She shoves her chair back a few inches and glances futilely at the empty floor around her.

"What is it?" Tatiana asks.

She didn't take it off last night. Did she? She just crawled into bed, right? Did she have it on this morning? She can't remember working the soap around it in the shower... Her stomach is hot and aching and she feels like her legs are just going to melt beneath her. 

Regina pushes up from her chair. "I have to go," she says, voice sounding sick and shaky and she hates it, hates all of this, feels like every bit of ground she has gained is sliding through her fingers with nowhere to find purchase.

Tatiana blinks at her, staring like her boss has lost her mind, caught between anger and concern. "What? Regina, we're finally getting somewhere with--"

She's right, Regina knows this, but she can't, she just can't, the bracelet is gone, it can't be gone, she has to find it, she can't...she...maybe it fell off in bed, somewhere in her bedroom... "I have to go," she repeats, stepping away and snatching up her purse from the nearby table, leaving behind her half-full coffee as she starts toward the elevator.

"Why? Regina, what the hell?" Tatiana is on her feet now, too. "You can't keep just...what the hell?"

Regina is hauling up the gates of the elevator. "Later. I can't." She hears her own words even as she exists a million miles away. She knows this looks like she is acting exactly as she has for months. Like she is affirming every concern Tatiana has had, undoing every bit of progress they have made in the past week and in the past thirty minutes. Like she is distracted and uncommitted and her heart is not in the work, anymore, but in this exact moment it is all true and there is nothing she can do to stop it. Because all that matters in the world is keeping her feet beneath her, retracing her steps, and finding that bracelet before she cannot draw another breath.

She punches the button for the lobby almost convulsively and lets Tatiana's words fade to silence as the elevator moves her down.

Her eyes scan the ground beneath her as she walks, almost runs, as though there is any chance a bracelet dropped in New York City would remain untouched. She thinks she might suffocate on the 12 minute subway ride, then she's pushing rudely through the crowd and hurrying back toward her apartment. She shoves through the doors, ignores the doorman, and accosts the man at the front desk without preamble, despite his obvious preoccupation with a phone call. "Has anyone turned in a bracelet?"

Marc, the wiry and high-voiced attendant with the pale blond buzzcut, looks startled and maybe a little frightened, because he knows exactly who she is, and she is clearly upset. "I'm sorry, what was that, Ms. Rossi?" Then he says into the phone, "I'm sorry, could you please hold for a moment?" She sees him slap the hold button without waiting for a reply.

"A bracelet," she repeats, trying not to sound desperate, not to talk too fast, but she wants to get upstairs, tear apart her covers, her sofa, her shower drain, anywhere she can search until she has her hands on that bracelet, once more. It cannot be gone. Eighteen years, it cannot be gone.

"No, I'm sorry, Ms. Rossi, I don't think we have anything like that at the desk right now."

"Are you sure?"

"Well, I believe so, but if you'd like to wait, I can go check in the back in the safe, if on the last shift--"

She shakes her head, too anxious to stay still. "No, forget it. I'll look on my own." Before Marc can say another word, Regina is off and rushing down the hallway to the private elevator. This time the ride is interminable and the claustrophobia hateful and she is wondering if she really is going to throw up before the door slides open. She makes it in one piece, and she punches the access code into her front door with shaking fingers.

When she comes in the door, Rose is bent over with her head in the refrigerator, carrying out the requested wipe-down, jars lined up on the nearby counter. At quick glance, the rest of the apartment already looks much better. But Regina just doesn't care. "Did you find a bracelet, anywhere?" she demands as Rose rises from the refrigerator, hands pressing on the tops of her knees.

"What's that? You looking for a bracelet?"

"Yes, did you find anything. On the floor, or in the couch, or..."

Rose is shaking her head. "No, ma'am, I haven't found anything like that, this time. There was a scarf on the dining table, I thought it was yours and--"

"It doesn't matter. I need to find the bracelet. It's a gold tennis bracelet, with ruby-colored stones. I had it on last night, I...I didn't know it was gone." She doesn't wait for a reply, rushing across the open rooms, heading toward her bedroom.

Rose hasn't been in here, yet, things are still just as Regina left them. She throws back the covers, uncaring of where they land, and runs her hands frantically and seekingly over the rumpled sheets. She shakes out the pillows, curls her fingers into cracks. The sick heat in her stomach is ever-present and she is starting to feel dizzy.

She scans the plush carpet, tries to remember everywhere she might have walked. She tears through her drawers of intimates, just in case the bracelet caught on something when she gathered her clothes before her shower. She tries to think through the night before, capture a single moment in her memory when she is certain the bracelet was still there It was there when she was making out with Graham, she remembers making sure the clasp did not catch in his hair. It was there when she was standing on her balcony taking in the fresh night air, she remembers shaking it down to her wrist as she spread her shawl over her bare arms. And then...then... Oh, God. Regina races out to her balcony, scanning the open space, searching table tops and chair seats, but it's futile, there is nowhere for a bracelet to hide. What if when she was falling, when she was grabbing at the railing. Fuck.

She races back through the living room where Rose is lifting up couch cushions, having picked up the search of her own volition. "I don't see anything here," she is saying as Regina rushes by. Regina doesn't bother explaining where she is going, but she is out the door and taking that fucking elevator back down.

The sidewalk below her balcony isn't packed, but it's more crowded than she would like as Regina scours the ground, the gutter, the dust piles and bushes at the building's base. Anywhere she can think of, not caring who is watching, who might recognize her, or what this must look like, because she cannot lose this bracelet, she needs it back in her hands so badly her muscles ache.

There is nothing here.

Upstairs, Regina tells Rose to leave.

"I still have a couple of more rooms to do, so--"

"Just go. We'll reschedule."

"Do you want me to--"

"Just _go_!" It's harsh, but she can't, she can't deal with anyone, right now. Her voice is shaking.

"All right," Rose says softly, and she begins gathering her things. To the woman's credit (and Regina knows on some level, she will appreciate it, later), Rose pauses on her way out the door and asks with a tone of genuine human caring, "Are you all right, Ms. Rossi?"

Regina takes two shallows breaths and says only, "Just go," but the sting is gone from her words and she hopes Rose understands. The older woman nods and takes her leave.

Regina can't stand still. She paces back to the bedroom, searching and re-searching and desperately trying to think of anywhere, anywhere else the bracelet could be, until she's shaking and hot and cold all at once, and it just hits her like a sucker punch to the gut that it's gone. It's gone, she just...it's gone. _Everything's gone._

She slides her back down her bedroom wall to land in a wilted mess on the floor, shoes thrown aside, dress riding up -- falling in a cascade of tears.

She hasn't felt this alone in a very long time.

She misses Henry with a visceral pull in her chest. She wants to call him, to hear his beautiful voice, but he'll hear she has been crying, and the last thing she wants is to fail at motherhood, as well. Her mother is the last person on Earth she would call for comfort in this matter. Her father would only soothe her with empty words and offer to make her tea and stroke her hair, but he would make her feel as powerless as he has always been.

Does she...does she have any friends, anymore?

She thinks to call Graham. They aren't exactly friends and they aren't exactly lovers, but they've been...something to one another. Haven't they? He's been...a kind of comfort. There's been care.

Regina reaches over to where she tossed her purse on the table by the door and pulls her phone from the pocket. She brings up Graham's contact info and punches "Call." With the phone to her ear, she tries to slow her breathing, tries to stop her hands from shaking, because she just wants to hear a familiar voice, just wants something to ground her when the floor seems to be slipping from beneath her feet. She doesn't want a shoulder to cry on.

Her call goes to voice mail.

Irrationally furious at the presumed rejection, Regina slaps at the End button and hurls her phone across the room, watching it bounce off a magazine rack and land on the carpet. The anger quickly melts into hurt, and she pull her knees tight against her chest, shoulders shaking as she can't stop her tears.

Three hours ago, she thought she was getting her confidence back. She has never felt more pathetic and broken in her life.

"Hello?"

Regina startles sharply, lifting her head with a brisk, wet intake of air. "What the hell?" she whispers.

"Hello?" the voice says, again. And it's coming from her phone. Is that Graham? Did she not hang up? Did he...

"Ms. Rossi?"

The accent is English, not Irish. Confused and shaky, Regina crawls the few feet across her carpet and reaches for her phone.

"Are you there?" the voice says again, just as she lifts the device and blinks the lighted image into focus. _What the hell?_ On her phone, is a picture, clear as day, of the man from the balcony last night. Her savior. Robin, wasn't it? Yes, it says below the picture, Robin Archer, followed by his phone number. In the picture, Robin is smiling, and it is daylight, and his hair is a little longer than it was last night.

Moving as though she has suddenly slipped into a dream world, uncertain of the consequences of her every action, Regina lifts the phone to her ear. "Mr. Archer?"

"Oh, you are there!" he says, brightly. And it is definitely him. That same mix of snark and glee and genuine honesty that confused the hell out of her last night.

"How...how are you calling me?"

"What? No, I didn't. You called me."

The phone must have dialed when it hit the magazine rack. But, no, it couldn't have dialed an entire number. He had to be in her contacts. He couldn't possibly be in her contacts. She had never seen him before. "What? How could I call you, I don't...I don't have your number."

"Ah, well, actually, you do. I'm afraid I must admit, I put it into your phone last night."

She repeats that in her head, for a moment. "You put your information into my phone?"

"Guilty as charged."

Regina crosses her leg into a habitual yoga pose and draws up into a more elegant posture. "Are you...are you stalking me?"

"Hmmm, no, I'm fairly certain that would have involved attempting to get _your_ number into _my_ phone. And I did not have your number until you just now called me." His tone is infuriatingly light and logical. Maybe even a bit condescending.

It irks her. She lets out a sigh of something between exasperation and confusion. "But..how did you even get it all entered so quickly? You only had my phone for a second. And the picture, your picture came up when it dialed." 

"Ah, that," he says. "Magic." 

"Excuse me?" 

"Yes, sad story, I did a lot of magic as a child, geeky boy that I was. I practiced a great deal, rather mastered a bit of sleight of hand. Can come in handy, now and again." 

"Magic." She has no idea what to say to that. Or how she came to be having this conversation. Or what has happened to her life. 

She blinks, clears her throat, tries to ask something intelligent, but before she can speak, Robin adds, "And the picture was likely my Google contact photo. I popped my email address in there, too, so it probably synced, and..." 

"Right." 

They fall to silence. Because what are you supposed to talk about with a strange savior suddenly on your phone? Regina looks around her, taking in her disheveled bedroom with a little distance and uncomfortable perspective. The chaos reminds her afresh of the missing treasure, and the nausea washes over her, again. 

After a moment, Robin's voice comes soft and surprisingly gentle in her ear. "Please forgive me, Ms. Rossi, but...are you...are you all right? You sound...well, you sound like you may have been crying, and..." 

Regina can't suppress a mirthless laugh. It's not like she could sink much lower, might as well be humiliated as well. "Yeah," she concedes, "Not my best day." 

"I'm sorry to hear that." And he sounds like he actually is, which is ridiculous and confusing, and...and he did save her life last night. "Ms. Rossi, would you like...would you like to meet for some coffee or tea or something?" 

Oh, God, she is not a charity case, and she does not need to be watchdogged or babysat or nursed back to functionality, for Christ's sake. "No." She clears her throat and strengthens her voice. "No, I'm fine. Thank you, but...you don't have to worry." 

"Oh, no, it's not...it's just...I would like to have coffee with you. Would you like to get some coffee with me? Or possibly...a donut?" 

He never once has said what she expected of him. "You want to have a donut with the crazy lady who almost fell off her balcony and then accidentally called you and accused you of stalking?" 

"Yes. That's why I put my number in your phone." 

This time her laugh carries a slight, uncomfortable edge of hysteria. "You know that's insane, right?" 

"Probably, yes. But I'm fairly certain there's a hell of a lot more to Regina Rossi than one bad day and too much champagne. You do run an internationally successful business, after all. And I would like to have coffee with you and learn a bit more. And if that changes up your bad day as well, well, then, that's good, too, yes?" 

She tries with every shred of dignity she still holds to find a reason to say "no." She takes a breath to do just that, because of course the answer is "no," she has not completely lost hold, she is not going on a coffee date with a stranger who appeared in her bedroom and put himself in her phone, and especially now when she is mascara-streaked and utterly disheveled and trying to reconstruct her self-respect, and she opens her mouth to say "no," of course, "no" but she feels so untethered and his accented voice is the first thing that has felt truly comforting in so many days and it is like someone else entirely is talking when she says, "All right. When?" 

***** 


	4. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major beta gratitude to helenhighwater7 and shinewithalltheuntold.
> 
> Massive thanks to MaraKara for research help! Any mistakes remain mine alone. She can only offer me correct information, not assure that I use it correctly.:)
> 
> AUTHOR'S NOTES: So sorry for the delay! First I was sick, then a migraine, then a bunch of family stuff happened for which my presence was essential, and I've been trying to claw my way back to my keyboard amid the chaos. I hope the next chapter will come sooner! Fear not, I am completely determined to see this monster through to the end, however long it might take!

Copyright (c) 2015

 

Chapter 3

_"Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face_  
 _The kind you'd find on someone I could save_  
 _If they don't put me away_  
 _Well, it'll be a miracle"_  
\--Brand New, 'Jesus Christ'

 

Fuck. Fuck, fuck, FUCK. What the hell is he doing? What the HELL?? What is he thinking asking Regina Rossi to coffee? _The_ Regina Rossi. Asking her out?? What the fuck!? Doesn't she stand for everything he is against? Isn't he putting his safety and future at huge risk? Is he insane?

Well, obviously, he crossed that line when he put his number into her phone.

And why on earth did she say 'yes'? The Queen Bitch of the fashion industry. Arrogance and self-involvement and materialism personified. And when he looked at her on that balcony, shaking and confused and flushed, eyes wide and raw, and she seemed so... human and...reachable...why did he want to put her by a warm fire and wrap her up in a blanket and give her chamomile tea? And then when she was warmer, pry a few of those insanely expensive garments off her ridiculously well-toned and curvaceous body, and run his hands and lips over the shapes and lines of --DAMMIT!! What the fuck? He met her for no more than five minutes. What has happened to his brain?

This past week has brought an unstoppable series of some of the stupidest actions of Robin's entire life. This morning he had awoken with the hope of reconstructing his path, and now here he is continuing down yesterday's misbegotten road.

"Did you plan to knock, or..." The familiar voice nearly startles Robin out of his shoes, and he realizes he has been standing in front of Belle Charron's apartment door for the last several seconds (could it have been minutes?), cell phone still in his hand, but he has yet to knock.

"Belle. Oh, good heavens. Yes, sorry, I...but clearly that wouldn't have done any good, since you weren't home."

"Clearly," Belle offers with an indulgent smile and a light chuckle. She is holding a pair of grocery bags, foot tipped back on her impractically high heel, carefully painted fingernails curled through her apartment keys.

Robin has known Belle for nearly three years. She moved into the apartment below him, fresh off the plane from Melbourne with a student visa and an American boyfriend awaiting her arrival. She has since blossomed into quite the woman, now working part time at the local library while she makes her way through a graduate degree in literature, engaged to that boyfriend, and the short blond bob with which she arrived has transformed into a long mass of dark red curls.

The girl has been a Godsend as far as Robin is concerned, acting as a regular babysitter/part-time Nanny to his son, Roland, from nearly the day she arrived.

Robin reaches out and takes one of the bags from Belle's hand, and she edges past him to unlock her door.

"Did you need something?" Her tone is pleasant enough as she glances over her shoulder. The locks in this building border on ancient, and they often require more sweet-talk and cajoling than simple 'working'.

Robin cringes at her easy words. "I feel as though I should ask after your day, first. Seems I only ever come down here to ask favors of you."

Belle shrugs as she pushes her way into her living room, holding the door open with her back to let Robin pass in front of her. He takes another of the bags from her arms as he passes. "You're a single father, Robin," she says simply. "I think that's a hazard of the role."

"Perhaps." His reply lacks conviction. He sets the bags on the kitchenette counter and turns to face his friend. Her apartment is even smaller than his, but she has given it a good deal of literary charm. Books overflow from packed bookcases and line the walls in neatly constructed stacks on the floor. Comfortable chairs and hand-knit blankets make for a welcoming oasis. Her little dinner table is decorated like it belongs in an elegant French café, and he thinks perhaps these groceries are aimed at cooking a special meal. "Seems unfair all the same," he adds softly.

Belle just slips out of her over-blouse and hangs it from the brass coat tree by the door. "What do you need?" she repeats with a forgiving smile.

Robin lets go a heavy sigh. "I'm afraid I agreed to--well, I asked someone to meet for coffee in about...well, now. Without first assuring I had a plan for Roland. It was all rather spur of the moment. And it's in the Village. And I was just hoping by some random chance..."

Belle wrinkles her nose. "Toss the little bugger my way, he can help me make dinner."

Robin sighs with a strange mix of relief and apology. "Oh, that would be so wonderful, but are you certain?"

"Adam won't be here until six. I'm assuming you plan to be back by then?"

"Yes, yes, it's just coffee. I'll make certain I'm back."

"Then off you go." She flicks a hand in the air, sending him on his way as though he were the four year old.

Just as Robin is passing through the door, once again repeating his thanks, Belle says with a quirk of her eyebrow. "Is this a date type of coffee thing?"

Robin hesitates, the hand still holding his phone braced against the door frame. He draws a controlled breath. "I think it might be. The situation is just a little unclear to everyone involved."

Belle gives a light chuckle. "Well, let me know if today clears it up, at all."

He nods and gives her a playful smile. "Will do. I'll have Roland right down."

*****

Regina chose the location. And Robin was more than happy to let her set the meeting on her familiar ground. The truth is he has no idea how she lives, the places she goes, her idea of recreation or comfortable ground, or what she might be expecting of this particular encounter. Still, he is a bit surprised when her choice turns out to be an independent, artsy coffee shop on a busy corner in the Village. He was expecting some upper crust and posh cafe, perhaps something on the Upper East Side. But as he follows his phone's GPS from the L train stop to the door of his destination, he finds himself gazing upon a cluttered and inviting entrance adorned with braided cloth and flyers for local Indy bands.

Gentle chimes sound as Robin pulls open the door and steps inside. The shop is a little stuffy and warm for this June day, though he imagines this place would be a welcome haven on a brutal December night. The crowd is pleasantly vibrant but not cramped or cloying. The interior of the shop is decorated wall to wall with crafts and paintings and brightly-colored adornments from an eclectic mix of cultures and themes. At the far end of the shop he spies a raised area he imagines is sometimes used as a sort of stage for local music acts or perhaps book lecturers.

The corner positioning of the shop on the street allows for plenty of windows and ample light, even through the draping curtains tied in inconsistent patterns around the two outer walls.

Definitely not the place he had expected, but he quite likes it.

He sees her before she sees him. She has chosen a high table by the side windows. Her legs are gracefully crossed and her gaze is focused out through the broad glass. Dark hair falls loose and graceful behind her shoulder, the line of her jaw elegant in profile. She really is simply _striking_. Delicate fingers cradle a wide ceramic coffee mug, sunglasses folded on the table beside the same phone he held in his hand the previous night. He is surprisingly amused by the fact she did not wait for his arrival to place her order.

Naturally, she is dressed down a bit from last night's party attire, but her outfit is still upscale from the average woman on the street. Her sundress is deliciously revealing, her skirt inching up her thigh in her perched posture. The blue is vibrant against her golden skin. She sits poised, but not rigid. Her make-up is lighter and softer than he has seen, but her apple-red lipstick is still doing things to him he would prefer it did not. Or prefer it did more of.

Realizing he has not yet moved from the shop's threshold (another disturbing trend in his day), Robin is surprised to recognize the rush of nerves burning its way through his stomach as he contemplates his approach. Meeting women has not been a source of anxiety for him in a long time. Likely because he has not really cared enough about the outcome of such encounters. He cannot fathom why he suddenly seems to care so much about this one, but there it is, in the numbness in his fingers and the tension in his back.

The momentary paralysis is broken when Ms. Rossi turns and spots him at his post by the door. Perhaps he imagines it, but he thinks he sees a trace of similar nerves flit across her countenance before she neatly composes her expression and offers a small smirk of a smile. He is fairly certain he does not imagine the quick down and up sweep of her gaze, but he cannot interpret the results of her appraisal. He feels the movement of her gaze tickling his skin, and he wonders if he should have buffed up his clothing choice in the rush to meet her on time. Not that it would have changed a great deal. He is who he is; the variety of his wardrobe is not particularly vast. It is not as though he were going to arrive in Prada. He wonders if she has.

"Ms. Rossi," Robin says, holding out a hand as he approaches her table. "A pleasure to properly make your acquaintance."

"You mean by invitation, this time," she quips, as she slips her hand into his. Her skin is soft, but her grip is firm, and she carries all the confidence in the gesture of an experienced businesswoman.

Robin indulges a soft chuckle. "I told you, I was invited along to your party by a friend."

Robins climbs up onto the stool across from her and is pleased to find she has chosen the perfect place in the room to take in the refreshing breeze from the single lazy ceiling fan circling above.

Regina narrows her gaze as Robin settles his forearms onto the table. "And which friend was that?" she prods.

"Hmm? Oh...William," he replies lightly. For God's sake, there had to be a single William somewhere at that party.

"William," Regina repeats, frowning in thought. "Oh, Will Summers?"

"Yes, Yes, Will."

Regina shakes her head, "I didn't even invite him."

The panic is quick and painful and he is fairly certain this is all over before it began.

Right up until she says, "Rocco must be dating him, again. God, will he never learn?"

"Hey, there," Robin says, recovering without a stumble, jumping in and selling the lie as best he can. It is a little unnerving how easily this all comes back to him. He doesn't know whether to be proud or ashamed. "Will is my friend."

"Really?" Regina seems genuinely concerned by this, and it is clearly time for a back pedal.

He gives an easy shrug. "Well, no, not really. He's a useful acquaintance, I guess you would say. For things like, oh, party invitations," he finishes with a kind smile.

Robin sees only a moment's hesitation before she carefully returns the smile. The shared expression lingers between them an extra beat and the mood shifts to something a little more intimate before she says, "Hello, Robin Archer," and her voice is ridiculously innocent and sweet and throaty, and he is so royally fucked by this enigma of a woman.

"Hello, Ms. Rossi."

"Did you have any trouble finding the place?"

He shakes his head. "No, not at all. I see why you like it, it's quite charming."

"Well, it's got more character than a Starbucks, at least." She takes a sip of her coffee. Takes a moment to swallow and ready her throat to speak. "No poetry slams or anything, but I like that people come here to actually talk and work on creative projects and not just stare at their phones. And the vanilla roast is delightful." She tips her mug in reference.

"Perhaps I should give it a try."

"Go right ahead."

Robin glances toward the front counter, but the line is a bit daunting and the idea of leaving Regina at the table alone with her coffee while he slogs through the wait is not particularly appealing. Regina's sharp gaze takes in all of this before he can hide it, and by the time Robin has turned back to face her, she is waving her hand over her head to catch the attention of the girl behind the counter, the tall one with the red streak in her dark hair. When the two women have locked gazes, Regina points to her own lifted mug and signals for "one more" with a subtle gesture toward Robin. Robin turns to see the girl behind the counter give a discrete nod. Just enough to confirm Regina's order without drawing the attention of the patrons lined up before her.

Robin gazes across at Regina with quiet curiosity.

She gives an easy shrug and takes another sip of her own vanilla roast. "I'm a long-time regular." Her words hold an air of dismissal.

Robin narrows his gaze and studies her a moment before replying, "A _famous_ regular," he clarifies.

"Nominally,"

He ignores the self-depreciation. "Interesting to observe how the other half lives, even in coffee shops."

Regina barks out a laugh. "The other half of what? The job comes with a few perks at restaurants, end of story."

Robin shakes his head. "Oh, no. There is far more to your story than that."

"You keep saying things like that."

"Am I wrong?"

Regina draws a deep breath, chest rising visibly, pulling at her tailored dress, and Robin makes a concerted and sincere effort to Keep His Gaze From Dipping. She tilts her head, tails of her hair brushing enticingly along the sculpture of her collarbone. "And what about your story? You no doubt know at least the bare bones of who I am. Who are you, Robin Archer? What do you do?"

"Mmm, two different questions, wouldn't you say?"

Regina's eyebrow lifts, but she gives a single allowing nod. "Sometimes."

"Well, as for what I do, I work in a youth center in Alphabet City. We are a sort of multipurpose place that has expanded in various directions in the years since my partner John and I took the reins. We offer a fairly basic place of refuge, somewhere we take in teens from the street, give them a place to sleep, clothes, resources. We also run an afterschool activity center where we offer enrichment classes, guidance, information...a chance to see a few possible paths in life they might not otherwise see. And a couple of times a year we run a camp outside the city. Two or three weeks of cookouts and swim classes and hikes and the like. I even teach a bit of archery," he finishes with a playful sparkle in his gaze.

Regina watches closely as he speaks, a slight frown creasing her brow and a depth to her eyes that tells him she is really listening and perhaps surprised or confused by what she hears.

"What?" he prompts after she remains silent and contemplative for a beat too long. He catches himself holding his lower lip between his teeth.

She shakes her head. "Nothing. I just...I wasn't expecting that reply."

It's his turn to narrow his eyes. "Is that good or bad?"

Before Regina can reply, the long-haired girl from behind the counter swishes past their table and deposits a tall, steaming mug before him. His is in take-away cardboard, not Regina's ceramic. "One vanilla roast. Enjoy." And the girl is off and gone again before there is a moment for more than a quick, "Thank you, Ruby," from Regina.

Robin curls careful fingers around the warmth of the mug. "I didn't pay for this," he says.

Regina shakes her head, "Ruby will just put it on my card."

"So, you're paying for the date? I hardly think that's right for our first meeting."

Regina stretches her neck forward, tilts her head a bit and speaks with deliberately excess clarity. "It's coffee."

Robin leans in with a poorly covered grin, meeting her posture and her sass with his own. The gesture brings them just close enough to shift the feel, to make him vividly aware of the scent of her perfume and the sound of her breath. Such things make it harder to focus. "It's symbolic," he counters.

They hold the challenging gaze for another breath, and he fights the pull of the dip in her neckline as she leans. Finally, Regina softens into a smile and says, "It's good. What you do for a living. It's good."

"Ah." Robin settles back into his seat and brings his mug cautiously toward his lips. "Glad you approve."

"I do. I truly admire what you're doing. There's certainly a great deal of need for it. However..." and now she draws up straighter, clearly shifting her tone, "I'm going to have to ask about the wedding ring. I didn't see that last night."

Robin startles and draws a sharp breath, reflexively glancing down at his hand and fingering the brushed gold with his thumb. "Oh. Oh, I'm sorry, it...I'm not...my wife passed away a few years ago. I just...can't always seem to leave it off, you know?"

"I'm sorry." Her response is surprisingly even and comfortable and it crosses his mind for a brief second that this is the reply of a woman with an intimate knowledge of such loss. But, of course, she lost her husband, right? She had been married to Leopold Kingsley until his death...he should have thought...

"No, I'm sorry," Robin reiterates. "I really didn't mean to wear it today, I don't always. I honestly forgot. Does it make you uncomfortable, I can..."

"It doesn't. But...if I should happen to see you again, and if the press... You just...don't want to find yourself in that kind of headline."

He takes that in for a moment. Weighs all its implications. "Noted."

Regina gives a brisk nod, then seems to consider the topic closed.

"So, you have a son," he offers, helping her lead the subject away. He takes his first full sip of the coffee, and good God, she's right, this vanilla roast is marvelous.

Regina's red lips reveal a twist of a pure and instinctive smile that seems unintentional and infinitely telling. "I do," she says, and there is a pride and warmth in her eyes that Robin finds utterly captivating and lushly satisfying. Even better than the coffee.

"Tell me about him?"

"He's eleven. Which...doesn't seem possible. Growing right in front of my eyes, some days."

They share a soft chuckle. Robin swears Roland is inches taller this week than he was last.

"His name is Henry. He's feisty and kind and brilliant and talented and exhausting and generally my favorite person in the world."

Robin's smile is broad and unselfconscious, comfortable and content, because he is simply captivated by the glow of the woman before him. Regina Rossi is a different person when she speaks about her son, and he finds he could stare at this woman all day. "That is wonderful," he says. "Absolutely wonderful. I love to hear that. Every boy should be so lucky."

Regina shakes her head. " I'm the lucky one. He puts up with me, which is not always an easy task. Do you have kids?"

"Indeed I do. I have a son, as well."

"Do you?" There is a welcome light of something like hope in her eyes that Robin doesn't quite understand, but he is pleased by it nonetheless.

"I do."

"How old?"

"Roland has just turned four two weeks ago, and he will gladly inform you of this in no uncertain terms with pudgy little fingers to demonstrate, should you ask."

Regina grins at the image, and Robin detects the light trace of nostalgia of a mother of a growing boy for the little one she once had. "Four is a fabulous age," she says, voice selfless and warm and the diamond studs in her ears and the sparkling ring on her finger and the clutch purse that probably cost his full week's salary suddenly seem no kind of barrier when one parent is connecting with another.

"And you've raised him on your own?" she asks.

Robin shrugs. "Not much of a choice, there. We lost his mother when he was just five months old."

Her cringe is genuine and bears traces of an empathy he still cannot quite identify. "Oh, I'm sorry. I can't imagine what that was like for you."

"Oh, I'm guessing you can. You've been a single mother all along, yes?"

"Well, yes, but--"

"And you lost your husband as well?"

There is the smallest beat of hesitation; a stutter, a glitch, something disconnected or misaligned. But Robin cannot begin to quantify the miss-pitched note before the mask is neatly back in place and Regina says smoothly, "I did. But long ago, before Henry was born. I knew I would be a single parent going in."

Robin nods. "Mm-hmm, mm-hmm, and did that leave you fully prepared for the experience?"

That wins him a glimpse of that adorable smile, the one that pulls at her resistant lips and seems to magnify her pale freckles, and he finds he is becoming much too quickly addicted to eliciting that particular expression from this woman who seems to prefer a mask of solemnity. "Not in the slightest," Regina concedes. Her tone has deepened, grown slightly hoarse, and thus goes straight to his groin.

Robin tilts his coffee toward hers. "Well, there you have it. Parenting is always a fake-it-till-you-make-it proposition. Make your plans on the fly."

"Fair enough."

"This coffee really is excellent." He takes another generous swallow and wonders in passing at the caffeine level and just how late he might be awake, tonight.

"Glad you like it," she says softly. Then, apparently responding to some continued conversation she is having in her head, the privilege of which he has been denied, she tenses and shifts uncomfortably on her stool, uncrosses and re-crosses her legs and pushes at the edges of the table with the heels of her hands. "I'm sorry. It's just...this is crazy. I shouldn't even be--I should--"

Robin nods quickly, resists the irrational urge to reach out and grasp her hand (because she's shaken, internally rattled in more ways than he understands, and he wants to quiet her, needs to comfort her). He contents himself with resting his hand on the table near her coffee, fingers outstretched. He infuses his words with a depth of understanding that seems to surprise or intrigue her, at the very least halt her intent to rise from the table. "It is an admittedly unusual way to begin an acquaintance," he states clearly. "But that does not make it inherently wrong. Just a bit confusing. But there are no requirements or expectations, here."

Regina holds his gaze, the intensity in her dark eyes penetrating him with an almost alarming depth. Her mouth is tucked into a contemplative frown, but she does not speak.

Robin draws a slow breath, leans into the table and says, "Perhaps we should start again. Say we meet in a more conventional manner. Maybe we bumped into each other in a quirky little coffee shop in the Village?" He slides from his stool, grabs his half-empty coffee mug in his hand and steps up beside her. "Good heavens. Excuse me, but are you...are you Regina Rossi?"

She hesitates a moment, regarding him appraisingly, apparently uncertain how to approach his antics, gauging whether he is serious about this. Then her lips curve into a mildly indulgent smirk, and she says, "Yes. I am."

He holds out his hand. "Well, I'll be. Robin Archer, so nice to make your acquaintance."

Regina slides her hand into his, then glances around the room and says impishly, "It's awfully crowded in here, today. If you'd like to share a table...?" And he finds himself bathed in a rush of pleasured warmth at seeing her jump in with both feet and play along.

"Oh, that would be awfully kind of you, but...are you sure? You're not expecting someone?"

She shakes her head. "No, I'm alone, today. It's fine."

He nods. "Thank you, kindly." And he takes his seat, once again. "I had never tried this place before, but it seems quite charming."

"I rather like it," she says. "And it's not far from where I live."

"Nice. I'm afraid it's a bit out of the way for me. But there's a small chance I'll be having reason to be out this way a bit more in the near future. We'll see. If so, I shall have to remember this place."

"Business in the neighborhood?" she asks.

He smiles at her with his eyes over the top of his coffee and says, "A personal interest," then takes a sip.

Her jaw cocks to the side, but her gaze falls to her hands with a brief expression he might almost call shy or perhaps flattered.

The conversation gets ridiculously easy, after that. Moments of inexplicable familiarity mix with newness and exploration and Robin has to keep reminding myself he has just met this woman and that he really knows nothing of her life.

They chat for a good half hour, finish another round of coffees. They cover favorite books, favorite films, turkey or salami on sub sandwiches and the best kinds of Halloween candy, their favorite places for vacations (she loves the southern coast of France, he favors the northern woods of British Columbia), then the subject circles around to age and questions of career paths taken versus where one saw oneself heading as a child.

"Success is a matter of perspectives and expectations," Regina says, voice low, fingers restlessly tracing the rim of her mug.

"You don't see yourself as successful in life? You can't be serious."

Regina merely shrugs. "I have a beautiful son."

"Come, now. You are one of the queens of the fashion world. Even I know that, and as a rule I know absolutely nothing about the fashion world."

"Yes, well..." She pulls up in her seat, shifts her hair behind her shoulder with a toss of her head that would be deliciously sensual and alluring if not tainted by an air of suppressed sadness. "Professional success only carries one so far. I love what I do, but...well it's not all quite how it looks from the outside. Sitting alone in one's empty penthouse, it's still quite possible to feel...like the queen of nothing."

A slow beat passes between them. "Is that what you were feeling yesterday, on the balcony?" The words are out before he can bite down on his recalcitrant tongue.

Regina's eyebrows shoot up and she lets go an incredulous and shaky exhale. A second later, she has snatched up her phone and caught hold of her purse. "I really have to be going."

Damn. Damn him and his stupid stupid mouth. "No, please, Ms. Rossi, wait. I'm sorry. I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn. That was far too personal a question and none of my business. Forgive me, and please forget I ever asked."

She pauses mid-motion, fingers still curled around the strap of her purse. She breathes carefully and deliberately as she hovers in the shimmering echo of his request.

He is about to redouble his pleas, when she says simply, "You can call me Regina."

Gradually, he permits his frown of concern to soften into a tentative smile. "Thank you." Then to tease her, to test the warmth of the stirring waters, he wrinkles his nose over his near-empty coffee cup and says, "Not 'Gina'?" He has, after all, read a tabloid or two in the line at the neighborhood market. 

But the question has the opposite effect of his intent. She stiffens and grows even more distant in her carriage. There is something serious, here, something deep she is trying to cover, but he is starting to suspect that Regina Rossi might be a lousy liar. "No," she states, low and firm. There will be no argument. "That nickname...belongs to one specific person."

"All right." His voice is a near whisper. Soft and kind. He doesn't want to push, doesn't want to ask, but he wants her to know he _hears_. 

She seems to understand.

Ten minutes later, they are standing side by side outside the cafe, Regina in her sunglasses against the late afternoon glare, Robin squinting his sensitive blue eyes as he watches how the light brings out little highlights of auburn in her chocolate hair.

"I'd like to see you, again," he says. "Can I...can I take you to dinner? My treat, this time. Perhaps tomorrow night?"

She is quiet just long enough for his stomach to flip-flop twice over. She catches her luscious lip between elegant white teeth and holds it there (possibly just to stop his heart). Then, she says. "I can't tomorrow. I have a dinner meeting. But...what about Tuesday night?"

He nods with a warm smile, unreasonably grateful at the softness that has returned to her tone. "Tuesday works for me. Assuming, of course, I can find a sitter on shortish notice..."

"Let me know if you have a problem. I might be able to get Henry's nanny to help. I trust her like family, Roland would be in excellent hands."

"A generous offer, madam, thank you. May I see you to the train? Would you prefer a cab?"

Regina shakes her head. "I'm fine on my own, thank you." There is nothing cold in the remark, but there is a clear establishment of boundaries, and Robin accepts this as offered.

Regina glances over her shoulder, out at the traffic and to the crowded sidewalk beyond. Then she faces him with a gentle frown. "Can you do me a favor?"

"Of course, what do you need?"

"If we're going to...see each other, again...."

"Yes?"

"Don't...Google me. Don't read about my life on Wikipedia. Just...ask me."

This is the last thing he had been expecting. But he nods in earnest; intrigued, curious, full of questions, but keeping his expression as quiet and accepting as he can. "All right. Agreed."

She gives a shy, genuine smile in reply and his guts are doing that swimming, twisting thing, again, and oh, God, so royally fucked. 

"Until Tuesday, then," he says, offering an answering smile.

"Until Tuesday."

On impulse, he reaches out and catches her hand, gives it a gentle squeeze between his own. He gives her all the necessary slack to pull away if she should wish. She does not. She remains slack and permissive to his touch.

One moment more, the slightest, infinitesimal stroke of _her_ thumb against the outside of his own, then he lets her go without a word, turns and walks away into the crowd, fighting every urge within him not to look back.

*****

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Find me on Tumblr at rowan-d, should you care to chat.:)


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AUTHOR'S NOTE: So, this chapter is a couple of months late. A lot of family stuff happened, I apologize. Hopefully, the fact that this chapter is twice as long as usual will help make up for the delay, at least a little.:)

Copyright (c) 2015

**Chapter 4**

_"Let's discover one another  
Kiss me here, touch me there, yeah  
Purest form of ecstasy  
Truth or dare, don't be scared, yeah  
Let me solve your mystery"_  
\--Madonna, 'Inside Out'

 

No one is allowed to know that Regina Rossi practices yoga. This is not entirely true. Henry knows. Of course, he knows. There is very little Regina can keep from her relentlessly inquisitive child. But he is not allowed to watch her practice or to tell anyone else what he knows.

There is far too much vulnerability in the physical and emotional exploration.

Regina discovered yoga when Henry was very young, when single motherhood found her flailing for personal time and gasping for air. She loved her little boy to her last breath, but she was being pulled in every direction without a corner for respite, and she had not seen the inside of a gym in months. So, she started looking for something she could cling to in the few moments of peace before sleep each night. It began with snatches of evening meditation, in the quiet of her room after Henry was finally FINALLY sleeping. She would turn down the lights, open the view onto the city, light a candle. Regina discovered she liked focusing on fire, liked the idea of visualizing power in the smoke, of directing it and manipulating the energies.

It was something of which Cora, with her determined if plastically shallow Catholic background, would never approve, yet it was something that felt deeply and inexplicably familiar and comforting to Regina. So, for once, she kept something for herself.

She played around with manipulating energies. When Henry was sick, she would sit with him as he slept, hover her hands over his little body and try to feel the germs inside, focus on her vast love for him and visualize and target the darkness, use her love to pull it out of him. Sometimes it seemed to help. She liked being able to do something as his mother, something others might have been unable to do to help. But this little trick has grown harder and harder as he has grown older and more independent. The symbiosis of mother and toddler loses potency at eleven years old.

Meditation and energy work spread into relaxation exercise and stretching and eventually full out yoga. Regina has never had a formal teacher, only videos and books and blogs. But she is a good student when she wants to be, and she has picked up a great deal of knowledge, both practical and philosophical, in her years of study. Not that she can universally apply it all, as yet. Regina's inner life is more one of guilt and resentment and pain than of peace and acceptance. But she is trying, on her good days.

The trying makes her vulnerable. And vulnerability is not something she is in any way ready to indulge. Which is the primary reason for the closed doors and insistent secrecy.

Regina lives her life braced for a hit. Her stomach muscles are perpetually tensed, her protective armor raised and shored. She is not certain if there was a time, far back in her childhood, when this was not true. She trusted her father not to hurt her. But she never trusted him to have the strength to stand up and protect her from the world (from her mother). So she never truly felt safe.

No one is allowed to rest a hand on Regina's stomach when she is lying on her back, when she relaxes the muscles for a moment (when she can), when she lets down her barriers. Which makes savasana one of the scariest postures she can assume.

Not even Henry is allowed such privilege. Regina always places a guiding hand over his when he touches, or places a hand like a barrier between his head and her naval when he flops affectionately across her lap. Not because she thinks he would ever deliberately hurt her. But because little boys are prone to shove off harshly and unexpectedly, leaving a bit of bruising in their wake. Or throw out offhand comments they never realize might land with a sharp sting.

These recent mornings are the first time in a long while Regina has felt free to practice yoga in her living room, with all the doors open and the music echoing through the empty space.

She woke early this Monday, lit candles around the living room floor in the pre-dawn clouds. She has been practicing for nearly an hour when a seemingly innocent pose, stretched out on her side on the mat, brings forth a memory with visceral intensity that dances shivers down her exposed body -- Robin's hand resting on the base of her spine, guiding her through the door of the café, out onto the busy street.

She cannot remember the last time she met someone who turned her blood to warm chocolate with the lightest brush of skin. There is no explaining it. Connections, chemistry, wrinkle lines at the corner of an eye that make one person boring and another the fodder of fantasies. But there it is, there _he_ is, taking her focus off of her breathing and alignment and fastening it securely to those smiling blue eyes that seem to absorb every word she offers like an eager student.

Dammit. This was not on the schedule. She is supposed to be working on herself this summer, getting her focus and her center back before Henry returns from camp. She is not supposed to be flirting with some guy she stumbled upon at a party (when he just happened to save her life).

Or maybe that is exactly what she is supposed to be doing -- remembering that despite all of her experience, all her travels, there are still possibilities in the world she has not yet considered. Remembering that she is still the one setting the course of her life, that pursuing a bit of innocent pleasure is not such an outrageous indulgence.

Regina rolls onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. More than a decade ago she spent a rather obscene amount of money bringing in a much sought-after artist to perfect this ceiling by hand, to weave the figures of entangled lovers ever-so-subtly into the textures of the beige paint. Well, that view doesn't help. It only serves to reinforce what a hopeless romantic she remains at heart, despite getting burned far more times than she has ever been nurtured.

Breathing. Postures. Alignment. Focus.

She has a long day ahead, scheduled right through that dinner meeting. She needs to quiet her mind to be able to concentrate and get through everything that will be required of her.

She wonders when she will hear from Robin.

She rolls up her mat and blows out the candles.

Forty-five minutes later, Regina is dressed and polished and on the subway. It's a short and familiar ride, and she has her nose in the email on her phone for most of it. She stops at her usual corner shop for coffee, smiles at the familiar clerk, and tosses a generous tip into the jar. She is on the elevator up to her offices at exactly 8:00am.

Tatiana is waiting in Regina's private office, already seated in the chair across from the desk.

Regina drops her oversized armload of bags and sketchpads onto the desktop with an indelicate clomp, just barely keeping a solid hold on her extra tall latte as she does so. She straightens her back, draws in a deep breath and catches Tatiana's gaze, holding it for a significant beat before she speaks. "Yesterday was my fault. I'm sorry. I lost...something that meant a great deal to me. I was trying to find it, but...well, I didn't, anyway. But we did need to work, and I'm sorry I left that with you."

Tati narrows her eyes appraisingly and flicks her pen around between her fingers before she says, "Who are you and what have you done with the real Regina Rossi?"

Regina releases a breath dangerously close to a snort and rolls her eyes. "Shut-up," she mutters. "Now, what's on the table this morning?"

"Do you actually want to hear it?"

"What did I just say?"

"You told me to shut-up."

"Not about the work."

"Fine. Evanna's agent called again this morning."

Regina decides to take a breath, take a sip of coffee, and count to five. Just after four, she says, "And you have some new information that would change my standing reply?"

"I have our latest sales figures and the demographics of those to which we are losing our appeal."   
Tati makes a few quick taps to the tablet in her lap, then passes it over to Regina who tries very hard to be a professional and take it from her employee without making Tati hold it in the air for an extra moment. She is scanning over the figures that, though a little concerning, are not so different than the last numbers she laid eyes upon and are not exactly horrifying, when Tati says, "Will you just let me set up a meeting? No commitments, no promises. A simple meet-and-greet, a test shoot if you're interested. Nothing more. At least get to know the girl, find out what she wants to bring to the campaign."

Regina lets Tati wait for the reply a few uncomfortable counts too long, then without eye contact and with a warning note of coolness in her voice she says, "Meet-and-greet only. At least a week out from now."

To her credit Tatiana knows better than to respond with anything but an affirming nod. She has won a petty battle, but the war is still in Regina's kingdom. The subject has closed for the day. Regina hands the tablet back to the younger woman and reaches for the leather portfolio on her own desk. "Since I cut out on you yesterday, I stayed up last night and made a few sketches for our Fashion Week plans. Nothing final, just drawing board stuff, but hopefully it will help guide the vision."

Tati's interest is immediately peaked, and her attitude of tolerant management of a petulant boss turns into admiration and interest as she scoots forward on her chair and reaches an eager hand toward the sketches Regina spreads haphazard across her desk. Regina hates that she is such a glutton for the ego stroke, but it is what it is, and the bit of hero-worship over her art always does its good.

They work shoulder to shoulder, reviving the zone of productivity they had just begun to nurse when they were cut short the previous day. The pressing call of a lunch meeting brings the session to a close, but Regina is starting to breathe a little more and feel like her familiar self, again. Like there is a clear way forward for her business and she has the power to drive that course.

They are standing in the doorway to Regina's office, earlier tensions comfortably dissolved. They have both drained their coffees, and Tati has offered to make a run downstairs for more, when she points the stylus she's been using past Regina's shoulder and says warningly, "Incoming at your six o'clock."

"Hmm?" Regina whirls her head, hair falling pleasurably across her shoulder, but the moment she catches sight of the woman stepping off the elevator she turns back fast and closes her eyes. "Shit. The perfect Monday morning," she whispers.

Tatiana responds with a subtle smirk. "I admit, there are a few advantages to living 8,000 miles from one's family."

Regina arches an eyebrow. "The idea is more appealing every day. You think I should tell the desk to stop letting her up?"

Tati only gives a soft chuckle and turns to walk away as the arriving woman closes in.

"Chicken," Regina tosses after her assistant, but before Tati can reply, the all too familiar and overly bright voice sounds behind Regina.

"Regina!"

Regina draws a deep breath, composes her features, and turns.

"Maggie. To what do I owe the surprise?"

"What, a girl can't just drop by and surprise her step-mother?"

"Calling first is preferable, I am at work." Regina cringes a little at the note of parental rebuke in her own voice.

"Oh, come on." Ever the mature responder, Maggie. Perhaps she has not yet outgrown the role of petulant child to her step-mother's admonitions.

Mary Margaret Kingsley was a young teen when Regina married the girl's father. In the very beginning of the relationship, Regina and Maggie had some potential of getting along; Regina had looked forward to the prospect of having a baby sister of sorts after a lifetime of being an only child, solitary beneath her mother's heavy hand. But the more of Leopold's attention that shifted toward Regina and away from Maggie, the more the budding camaraderie deteriorated into resentment. Then, one day, Maggie betrayed Regina in a way the older woman has yet to find it in her heart to forgive. Even as that once teen girl stands before her as a fully grown woman, clearly no longer the misguided youth who acted out of jealously and ill-conceived loyalties, Regina cannot let it all go.

"I do have things to do. I have a lunch meeting in 15 minutes," she states. "What do you need?"

"Can we go somewhere and talk?"

_Because I have nothing to do_. Regina has wondered for years if Maggie actually hears her when she speaks. "Here is fine, I just said I don't have long. What do you need?"

Maggie twists her mouth in an expression of petty frustration and impatience Regina has seen a thousand times. One would never guess the girl...woman is approaching thirty. She is pretty, Regina will concede. Piercing blue eyes and beautiful dark hair that she has at last grown out to curl on her shoulders (abandoning that God-awful pixie cut she had insisted upon in high school). Her skin is pale and smooth and never had a blemish for a day. But she still dresses like she is twenty-one. Flirty little skirts and school-girl blouses. Clunky shoes meant to be fashionable that just come off as dorkish.

Maggie never has been willing to take fashion advice from her step-mother, and good grief, she is Regina Rossi, it's not like Maggie can claim she is too old and out of touch with modern trends.

"I need a favor," Maggie says, biting her lip, and glancing around as though to be sure they are not overheard. Regina cannot blame her there. The two of them have prompted enough tabloid headlines to last a lifetime. _Bitter feud between Kingsley heir and gold-digging step-mother rages on outside club in downtown Manhattan. New York's favorite party girl promises tell-all interview about domineering step-mother's string of illicit lovers. Regina Rossi claims bratty step-daughter ruined her life._ Somehow, Regina always comes out on the unflattering end of these journalistic fantasies.

"This doesn't surprise me," Regina drawls. "What favor?"

"Two favors, actually."

Regina just sags.

"First, I know you said you wanted the Sag Harbor house for a week in October. How flexible are those dates?"

"Carved in stone," Regina enunciates. "That's Henry's school holiday, he wants to go to the beach, and we have the week. Next question."

"Okay, I understand. But it's just...something's come up, and it's kind of huge, and we really didn't know in advance."

Regina just lifts her eyebrows and waits for more. This is not negotiable and she is not going to cave to batted lashes and a round-faced pout.

Maggie clears her throat, sits back on the edge of a nearby worktable and tries a new approach. "Here's the thing. I have eight of my closest friends flying in for a few days...kind of, a girls weekend, thing. And I can't rearrange everybody's vacation time and plane tickets and...I really want to have it at the beach house... "

Regina just shakes her head with no room for further consideration. "I put in my dates three months in advance, those are the terms of our deal. The house is mine for the week."

Maggie tries one of her best placating smiles. "No, I hear you. You did, I just...this was really last minute. We wouldn't need the whole week, just a long weekend. So...maybe we could kind of...I don't know, share, just for the last couple of days? The house is plenty big, and you and Henry would be at the beach most of the time, anyway, right?"

Regina can feel her eyes blazing and she sees the little bit of fear reflected on her step-daughter's pale countenance. "Share. Share? You are not bringing your rich bitch party girls anywhere near my son."

" _Regina!_ "

She doesn't even care who is listening. "No. Not in this life."

"You know, you weren't so snobbish when you hired one of my 'bitches' to be your nanny."

"Oh, please. Emma was a scholarship case at your boarding school, and your friends barely tolerated her."

"I see, so _money_ makes you a bitch?" Maggie's cocked head and biting gaze as she rises to her full height are a strong argument for nurture over nature in mother-daughter relationships. Beneath the loathing, Regina is almost proud. "I don't see you scrounging for funds, you know."

Regina leans in close, smelling the sickly sweetness of Mary Margaret's perfume as she hisses, "My point made."

With this, Mary Margaret draws a long slow breath, considers her step-mother for a moment, then sags her shoulders and drops back to her perch on the edge of the work table. "All right, Regina, here's what's going on."

If she is expecting eager prompting, she will have a long wait.

"David finally proposed. And I said yes." The girl can't keep the bubbling glee from her expression even as she tries to remain clinically factual. "We haven't announced it publicly, yet. We just wanted to keep it about us for a little while, you know, not public property. But now it turns out the bachelorette party is happening sooner rather than later. Which is why my friends are flying in. And I really wanted it to happen at our place by the beach. Good security, no paparazzi..."

The sound from the back of Regina's throat is a mix of exasperation and defeat. She can't deny a grudging admiration for the young couple's choice to keep their relationship between themselves and not milk it for media time. But she is still not surrendering the beach house. No, that is Henry's vacation.

The puppy-dog expression awaiting Regina's reaction is physically painful.

"Mr. Bland?" Regina asks with a bit of a grimace. "Really?"

"What, you'd prefer I marry someone crazy and wild?"

"Just maybe someone with a little more backbone. Someone you can't walk all over."

"Like you did?"

Regina gives a dark laugh. "Well, for once, nursing your Electra Complex might serve you well..."

"Regina." Regina's replying sigh hangs in the air a moment, before Maggie adds, "David's a good man."

It's true. He is. Dammit. "I suppose you could do worse," Regina concedes softly.

Mary Margaret flashes her a grudgingly tolerant look. "Thank you."

In the moments of silence that follow, Regina can read in Maggie's carriage that there is something more she wants to say, and there is a thread of vulnerability in the girl that stays her usual level of vehemence. But she really does have a lunch date to get to.

"What is it?" Regina asks flatly.

Maggie draws a long breath, fidgets with the strap of her handbag and lets her gaze slide around the span of the office. "Regina, I wanted to ask...I'd...do you think...I mean, I'd like it if..."

"If...?"

She can physically see Mary Margaret shoring up her spine and forcing the words across her lips. The hesitation is not like her. She has found a new way to be annoying. "If you would design my wedding gown," Maggie blurts in one long word.

Regina's reply is immediate. "I don't do bridal wear."

"Which would make it even more of an original!" Maggie volunteers, lips curling in a hint of a grin clearly meant to endear.

"Not amused. When is the wedding? "

"Well, that's the sticky part..."

"Why?"

"Because, David and I decided we didn't want to just spend all of our time for the next year stressing about the wedding, so, we thought the solution to that was to just...plunge in and do it."

Regina narrows her eyes. "How soon?"

"...October? First?"

Regina's bark of an incredulous laugh is enough to turn a couple of curious heads. "You _know_ I'm three months out from Fashion Week, right now. And you want me to design and make an original wedding gown for you, at the same time?"

"Yes...maybe."

"Does the _whole_ world revolve around you in your head?"

"Regina..." Mary Margaret stands up from the work table and takes a step toward her step-mother, but, no, Regina just cannot do this, right now.

She glances at the time on her phone. "No, you know what, I really have to go." She back up, turns and walks into her office to gather her things.

Mary Margaret follows her, but only so far as to hover in the doorway. "Regina, will you...would you think about it? Please?"

Regina snatches her purse out of her desk drawer, slams the drawer, then pauses for a moment, running the tip of her tongue over her lips and shaking her head. She avoids all eye contact. "I have to go."

In the edges of her vision she can see Mary Margaret hang on for a moment, then take in the words with a lowered gaze and a resigned nod of her head. The genuine and somehow... _personal_...sense of disappointment eats away at Regina's gut. The girl is turning to go, when Regina says softly, "Stop at the desk near the elevator, tell Jessica I asked that she take your measurements. Then set up a consult appointment for next week. I'm not promising _anything_."

The light blooming on Mary Margaret's face is something Regina really cannot deal with, right now. She hardly hears the girl's thanks as she pushes hurriedly past her through the office doorway and stalks toward the elevator, offering no more than a nod and not a moment's glance.

*****

Her lunch meeting is less than memorable. In fact, Regina suspects she remembers far less than she should. What she does remember is the texts she exchanged with Robin under the table, arranging the logistics of their Tuesday night date. A restaurant of his choosing, a favorite neighborhood Italian place. Seven o'clock to pick her up.

She finished the exchange by informing him just _how_ boring her meeting was, and warning him she was within minutes of the danger zone in which her brain might actually implode if the moron across from her did not stop talking just to hear himself speak or at the very least loosen his painfully tight tie before his pink head popped and splattered the walls like an overripe watermelon. Two minutes later, her phone vibrated in her hand and showed her a picture of a penguin sliding down an icy hill with his flippers in the air and his eyes bugging. The accompanying text read, _Something more amusing to look at._

It was stupid and childish and Regina almost couldn't suppress her own grin fast enough to avoid drawing the unwanted attention of her lunch companions.

How long had it been since anyone but Henry had sent her something like that? How long since anyone had been unafraid to be so real with her?

She really doesn't know what do with this man, and that fact in itself has her intrigued.

She is halfway back to her office when her phone buzzes with one last picture - this time the penguin is wearing a pink satin dress and a giant bow on its head. The message reads, _A new area in which to expand your designs, perhaps?_

Regina finds that Tuesday night seems uncomfortably far away.

*****

Tuesday night proves _much_ too far away. Regina's Tuesday is relentless and frustrating and interminable. Every trivial thing that could go wrong at work does, and by five o'clock all she wants is to get the hell out of the office and get home and changed for her date. She finally has to just call it and leave, work be damned, and bless her soul, Tatiana tells her to just go and enjoy, and she will stay and put out any lingering fires. Some days that woman is worth more than she pays her. Regina makes a mental note to boost Tati's holiday bonus.

Regina changes her dress twice. Which is ridiculous. If Regina Rossi knows anything at all in life, it is how to dress herself for any occasion. So, why is she compulsively overthinking a simple dinner date with an interesting man? Something about Robin Archer leaves her a little off center, a little unsteady. She likes it. And she fears it.

She has been thinking about what to wear since yesterday. She settles on an elegant dark red cocktail dress that hugs her curves in what she hopes are the most flattering ways. Underneath the dress she opts for her favorite black lace bra and panties. Not that she expects anyone but herself to see them tonight, but knowing they are there gives her a kind of internal self-assurance she needs. She chooses a tailored black leather jacket to shelter her bare arms against restaurant air conditioning or a cooling evening breeze. The heels of her basic black slip-ons are not deadly stiletto, but they are high enough to give her just a little bit of sass, a little audacity.

She is ready to leave and actually sitting on the back of her couch with her purse in her hand, waiting for her date's arrival like a teenager on homecoming night. She suggested they meet at the restaurant, but Robin insisted on fetching her like the annoyingly adorable traditionalist he is quickly showing himself to be. She compromised a little and told him to text her when his cab neared her building and she would meet him downstairs.

The penthouse feels unusually silent as she stares at the door, her phone cradled in her hand, carefully painted black nails clicking restlessly against the glass screen. It is strange not having to get Henry settled for the evening before she leaves. She forwarded him the goofy penguin photos just to have a reason to make contact, but he has yet to reply.

When her phone's message signal sounds it scares the crap out of her.

Regina closes her eyes in annoyance with her inexplicable nerves, forces a deep breath, and taps the screen for the message. It's Robin. _In sight of your building, I believe. Will pull up out front._

Regina quickly texts back, _Glad to hear. Will be down in a minute._

She adds a scarf to her outfit, then takes it off.

When Regina emerges from the building's front doors, the adorable man is standing on the sidewalk side of the cab, leaning back, arms crossed like the very picture of a men's wear model. She cannot deny the rush of pleasure that flits through her stomach and down her thighs as she watches him. He is clothed in a well-tailored burgundy pin-striped shirt open at the collar and a pair of tan dress slacks that hug his well-toned hips in all the right ways. Robin is quite, quite attractive, of that much she has no doubt. She is trying very hard not to let that steer her away from a rational appraisal of his character as they get to know one another. But, he really is lovely to look at.

The moment Robin sees her, he springs to attention, pushing up off the car and unfolding his arms. His smile is warm and welcoming.

"Good evening, Ms. Rossi," he says as he steps forward to meet her.

She can't help but return his smile. "Mr. Archer," she says softly. "So nice of you to escort me to the restaurant." She's half-sincere, half-needling him about out-dated gender roles, and she is just sure from the brief sparkle in his gaze that he gets it, and that sharpness and acuity is a serious turn-on for her. Finding a man who appreciates her passive-aggressive bitchiness can be a hefty challenge.

"Not at all, it's my pleasure," he says, and he touches her elbow as he speaks, leans in for a chaste but generous greeting kiss to her cheek.

She does not kiss back, but she does lean in to his offering just enough to let him know the gesture is not unwelcome. She lets him rest his hand on the small of her back as he guides her into the car.

She likes his touch. Every person's touch is different. Identical gestures from different people can feel like day and night. Her father's touch was always warm and welcome, her mother's calculated and self-serving, Henry's is infinitely trusting and kind, Leo was unpredictably comfortable or cold and bruising, Mallory was like cool fingers on a sweltering day (desperately desired but dangerous to overindulge), Graham's touch was trusted but somehow distant. Robin...Robin feels like she has known him far longer than she has. Like she has to be careful not to grant him privileges he has not yet earned.

"And how was your day?" Robin asks as the driver pulls the cab out into traffic.

Regina sighs and settles into the reasonably comfortable seat (for a cab). "Long," she says with a dry chuckle. 

Robin wrinkles his nose. "That sounds a bit like 'taxing'."

"Here and there," she concedes. "How was yours?" She watches him in the early evening light, shadows and colored light flickering across his skin. His gaze is so easy to meet. Usually eye contact is slow coming for her. It is something she knows how to use to her advantage in business, in negotiation and in confrontation. But for pure pleasure, in her private life, she bestows such intimacy slowly. With Robin, she finds the connection engenders only kindness and acceptance. Which either makes no sense, because he barely knows her, or makes sense only _because_ he barely knows her.

"Ah, my day...," Robin begins. "My day has been a series of unfortunate events that have hopefully led me to a marvelous evening that will wash all those minor inconveniences from my mind."

Regina gives a soft laugh. "So, you're saying your day sucked as well."

Robin wrinkles his nose in a way that makes her stomach quiver. She is viscerally aware of the intimacy of their confined space and the miniscule distance from his knee to her own. Conversation is so inexplicably easy with this man. Nothing has changed since Sunday afternoon. "Yes, I am saying my day sucked. But I think all the present crises have, at least, stabilized for the night and need not have my attention again until tomorrow."

"Well, that's something. You found a sitter for Roland, then?" She drops the child's name into the conversation just to watch the quick flash of warmth it ignites in Robin's eyes. She imagines she has some equal tells at the mention of her Henry.

"I did. My downstairs neighbor has once again come to my rescue. She's a graduate student and a librarian, Roland adores her, and she has been a Godsend when it comes to trustable childcare. I am living in denial of the knowledge that she is to be married and move out of the city next spring."

"Mmm. Good childcare is invaluable, I agree." Then, as though he had heard his name spoken, her phone buzzes and a text from Henry pops up on her screen. Regina grins, then with only a split-second's hesitation, she holds the message up for Robin to see. "And as they get older, they resent that conscientious care more and more," she says.

Robin leans a bit closer to get a clear view of the words, and Regina instinctively inhales his scent. Fresh. Sharp. Woodsy. Memories of clinging to Rocinante's reins, leaning low, and flying through the woods at the edge of the stables' grounds until she can feel nothing but rushing air and animal warmth and the sun on her skin.

_Checking in on the way to dinner_ , the screen reads. _Are you happy now?;)_

Robin matches her grin as he falls back into his seat. "The boy clearly has a bit of his mother's sass."

"Clearly," she drawls.

"I'm certain he misses you more than he says," Robin offers, voice softening just enough to let her choose how much intimacy she wants to accept from the words.

She gives only a soft hum in reply as she types a quick, _Define 'happy':p_ , then tucks her phone back into her purse.

Robin regards her with a gentle smile as they ride on through the city and she tries to breathe and let herself enjoy the warmth of this quiet moment. After a few breaths, he is still watching her, and she has to ask. "What?"

He shakes his head, smile undaunted. "Nothing. It's just...the media view of you is...less motherly than what I see."

Regina lifts an eyebrow and sucks at the inside of her cheek. "I have many sides," she says slowly.

Robin's smile pulls into an outright self-satisfied grin. "And I look forward to discovering them all."

She gives a light shake of her head at his incorrigibility, but she cannot help but be infected by his unsquelchable glee. The man seems ridiculously _happy_ regardless of any impending adversity. Regina is not sure she would recognize 'happy' in herself, these days, if it dropped in her lap.

Robin turns to gaze out the window, letting her off the hook if she wants to be. The conversation turns to the weather, the construction at the nearest cross street, and Roland's fear of fireworks with the approaching 4th of July.

As they pull up to the restaurant, she finds her phone says, _Happy = You won't withhold my allowance._

*****

The restaurant Robin has chosen is elegant, but not over-the-top in its formality. Regina is pleased to find she is appropriately dressed to scale and that they seem to be in a press-free location. Judging by the specials board at the entrance, the menu appears to be composed primarily of Italian food, but not exclusively so. The lighting is soft with golden overtones reflecting on the drapes and the tassels at the corners of the tablecloths. The chairs and carpets are a deep red that compliments her choice of dress. In the far corner a live jazz pianist warms the ambience.

Robin has a reservation, so they are seated with no wait. The waitress, some perky young thing (they look younger and younger to Regina every day) with long dark curls wrangled into a ribbon, takes their drink orders, leaves the menus, and bounces off toward the kitchen.

Regina smoothes the tails of her own hair from the effects of the evening breeze and the increasing humidity and settles her purse on the table beside her silverware. She takes a sip from the water-filled wine glass.

They are quiet as each of them casually peruses a menu, but after a moment Regina registers the shift in Robin's posture, the hesitation in his movements, and realizes his attention isn't on his menu at all. He glances around the room, then up at her with what she imagines might be an apology in his gaze. She frowns. "What is it?"

Robin shakes his head. "I'm sorry. It's just...is this all right? This place?"

Regina glances around, uncertain what exactly he is asking. She can tell she is missing some vital piece of this conversation. "Well, I can't speak to the food, just yet, but the ambiance is very nice. Why, what's wrong?"

Robin shakes his head. "I'm afraid I feel vastly unqualified to do this."

"To do what? Order dinner? " She is really lost. When her guess doesn't hit the mark, she tries, "Date?"

"To date in your tax bracket," Robin replies, words careful and deliberate. He is showing an unhealthy interest in his napkin ring. "Regina, I honestly have no idea where or how a woman like yourself spends an evening out. I don't know what you might...expect, or...want. In my world, this is a nice restaurant. But in yours...," he fades out and shrugs.

Regina takes a moment to sort through her thoughts and give this inquiry the depth of reply it deserves. This issue needs to be resolved, and it needs to be resolved now so they start this thing off on the proper footing.

She pushes aside her purse and moves her hands just a little closer to his on the table. She likes the way the light plays with the lines and planes of his cheekbones. She doesn't like the worry lines in his forehead, but she is touched by their depth. She clears her throat and speaks plainly and directly. "The first man...possibly the only man... I ever truly loved...was a stablehand. Nothing more, nothing less. No trust fund, no internship with an internationally renowned trainer, no promising scholarship; a stablehand. I do not choose my romantic interests based upon bank accounts. I have other standards, despite what the press may tell you. This restaurant is lovely, and my net worth has no effect on that one way or the other."

Robin gives a somewhat bittersweet but accepting smile and nods his head in acknowledgement. "Understood."

"Good."

A moment passes in silence, the gentle tinkering notes of the jazz piano drift over, then Robin seems to accept the subject as closed and pulls in a breath with a straightened spine. He reaches for his water glass as he asks, "And what became of him? That stablehand of yours..."

Regina feels the familiar weight in the depths of her stomach, grounding her to the chair like an unwelcome restraint. But she forces the words across her lips, because this moment is about honesty, and maybe she just misses that -- real words and real emotions. "He died. Very young. And the rest of the story is for another day."

"All right." His tone is soft and kind enough to twist her stomach dangerously, but he is not going to push, she feels it. Instead, he asks, "And is there to be?"

She misses the word play. "Be what?"

"Another day. Date."

A flirtatious smile creeps across her lips, and she is pleasantly thrilled by the matching sparkle awakening in Robin's eyes. "Isn't it a little early in the evening to be asking that?" she says.

Robin shrugs, easily. "I'm a carpe diem kind of man."

"Clearly."

"You haven't answered my question."

"I'll let you know after dinner."

"Fair enough." He leans forward, forearms on the table, and his smile is so delicious and, oh, hell, she is really in deep with this man, only thirty minutes into a second date. She can feel her footing slipping as she teeters on the precipice of an uncontrolled slide, and for the first time in a long time, she isn't fighting very hard for a solid hold. A quiet part of her is nursing an animated anticipation of the slide.

****

They have been eating for a few minutes, and Regina is trying not to gracelessly stuff her face like Miss Piggy, but _God_ this eggplant parmigiana is _amazing_ and how long has it actually been since she had something more substantial in her stomach than coffee or a cracker? Did she ever even eat lunch today?

"So, explain to me why a woman like yourself is available," Robin says around a mouthful of his own seafood and pasta dish. "I would expect one would have to wait months or years to sneak in a date request in the little window between relationships."

Regina wrinkles her nose and swallows the bite in her mouth. "Well, ignoring the fact that presumption makes me sound like a bit of a slut--"

"Oh, God, no, no, no, I didn't mean--I only meant that--"

She ignores the apology, and the fact that Robin nearly choked on his pasta, and keeps talking, "I will admit, I'm not exactly...lacking for attention. But, I guess I'm more often...seeing someone, than I am...'in a relationship'."

"Honestly, I only meant that--"

She waves off his words, this time with an air of command, and she sees him register the finality. She's playing with him, feeling out his boundaries.

"So, are you 'seeing anyone' now? Or is that what we're doing?"

Regina shakes her head and swallows another bite of eggplant. "I've been with...someone...off and on for a couple of years, now, but it's really more of...an arrangement, I suppose, than a relationship. And I think it's stretched a bit past its expiration date. As for us...," she waves her fork lightly between them, careful not to fling tomato sauce toward his lovely shirt, "...this is a date. And I'm...open to seeing where it takes us. If you are. Does that answer your question?"

"I believe it does. And, yes, I am, as well." He takes another bite of pasta and manages to successfully chew this one.

*****

"What was the last good book you read?" she prompts. "Not your all-time favorite, you told me that on Sunday, but the most recent thing you liked." As she speaks, she lets herself be just a bit too obvious about capturing a piece of pasta off her fork with her skillful tongue. She is pleased to catch his gaze latching onto the gesture for a lingering moment before he resumes his decorum and focuses on her question.

"I haven't nearly the time to read I once had, and I do rather miss it, but I try to sneak in a novel now and then. I would have to say the last one I really liked would be... _Catching Fire_ the second Hunger Games novel."

"You read _The Hunger Games?_ "

"I work with teenagers. It helps to keep up."

"Henry loves those books. He just doesn't like that they're in present tense. Offends his literary sensibilities."

"The boy clearly knows what he likes."

"Asserting his opinion has never been a challenge for my child."

"As we said, like mother like son?"

"Yeah, I probably have to own that one."

"Have you read them? The Hunger Games books?"

Regina nods. "He was 10 when he wanted to start reading, so, of course, I read them first. We read the first one together."

"Do you know how lovely you are when you say things like that?"

Regina pauses mid-bite. "Why? I mean..."

"I work with kids every day whose lives would be 180 degrees different if they had a parent like you."

"I wish that weren't true. I'm highly flawed. The ideal should be more."

"But it is true. And you should give yourself more credit. You have an incredibly busy job, you're a single parent, and you not only know what your son is reading, you pre-screen his books."

"I miss things. The older he gets, the more it cramps my helicopter parenting style," she says with a subtext of genuine self-deprecation she hopes is inaudible to the untrained ear.

"Has Henry ever been away like this before? Like this camp?"

"Never. Not once. We have never been apart more than a couple of days, and he was always with Emma, our nanny, or my father." She takes a drink of her water to slow her words.

"And this is killing you?"

"It won't be too much longer, really, just a few more weeks."

"But it's killing you?"

"I'm sure he's handling it wonderfully. He's incredibly resourceful and independent and rational for his age. And he texts me regularly."

"But it's killing you?" Robin repeats, unflappably calm.

"It is blackening my very soul," Regina admits, and she voices all the melodrama the phrasing deserves. Robin falls into an understanding chuckle that somehow makes her feel like maybe this is all okay. "I'm being ridiculous, right? Kids go to camp."

Robin shakes his head. "Ridiculous would be locking him in his room and forbidding him to go. Letting him explore his independence and his talents in a safe environment whilst you quietly disintegrate at home is just being a loving parent. Believe me, I was a basket case when Roland went to pre-school, I don't even want to think about Kindergarten."

"Kindergarten's brutal. On the parents. Henry loved it."

"That's good to hear. Hopefully, Roland will do the same."

"Your turn to confess. Most embarrassing song you like?"

He thinks for a moment, takes a sip of the wine they have added to their table. "Maroon 5's 'Payphone'. I sing it in the shower."

Regina laughs outright and without delicacy. Her elbows are propped on the table, fork dangled precariously over the dregs of her pasta. "I suddenly find you far less attractive," she says, and words and body language have never been so vehemently in conflict.

"That's because you have yet to hear my falsetto."

She wrinkles her nose and leans in to whisper, "It's probably best that we keep it that way."

Robin raises a hand to press to his heart. "Ah. You wound me, woman. So little faith in my talents."

On the contrary, she finds she has far too much faith in this man's potential talents to make any kind of rational decisions about the progression of the evening. "Now are you going to tell me you were the star of your high school glee club?"

"Mmmm, preppy would, I believe, describe the polar opposite of the boy I was in high school."

Regina lifts an eyebrow, intrigued. "Now that sounds like a story."

"A story for another day, I believe."

She holds his gaze for a long moment in the flattering light, then says softly, "And is there to be?"

"What?"

"Another day. Date."

"Well, that's up to you, lovely lady."

Regina just smiles and soaks up the glow of his presence.

*****

They take a walk after dinner. Regina wants to walk off some of the parmigiana. They amble along, staying safely with the lights and the crowds. Somewhere around the second block, Robin's hand finds its way into hers, and she willingly curls her fingers around his in response. His hands are a pleasurable mixture of soft flesh and the callouses of manual labor. She remembers tracing Daniel's riding callouses with her fingernails. Remembers the lack of texture to Leopold's pampered hands. The mix of texture in Robin's touch seems to parallel the whole of his being. A caring and devoted father, a quiet gentleman, yet she suspects he could be the fiercest of lions when it comes to protecting those he loves. She flexes her fingers around his and tries to remember the last time a man simply held her hand. She finds she wants to keep walking so he won't let go.

Their steps carry them past an open-air ice cream parlor with a bit of a line testifying to its popularity, and Regina decides to indulge when Robin offers to treat her sweet tooth, complete with a tenderly coaxing squeeze of her hand and waggling eyebrows.

"You're going to be bad for my figure, I can tell already."

"Your figure is in no danger of being anything but lovely, milady."

Regina rolls her eyes. But the easy compliment, the huskiness to his voice, and his subtly wandering gaze all feel good. Really good.

"You just want ice cream," she teases.

In the line, they start people watching, and before they reach the counter, Robin's running commentary on the imagined lives of the characters passing on the streets of New York City has Regina giggling and leaning close to whisper her contributions like they are BFFs in middle school. She doesn't even care that they are earning varied forms of approving and disapproving glances from neighboring customers; the attention somehow makes the whole thing that much more delightful.

She orders a strawberry ice cream cone. Robin chooses butter pecan. They walk and lick, Regina feeling increasingly flirty and oral as she goes and pleased by Robin's responsive attention. They find a comfortable bench on which to finish eating when Robin nearly drips ice cream down his shirt. When the evening breeze grows chill, the suit coat from over Robin's arm finds its way around Regina's bare shoulders. His fingers against her skin as he moves send shivers down her spine.

Seated on their bench at the edge of a small neighborhood park, gazing out across the buzz and rush of the city, the city lights seem extraordinarily beautiful. Robin's arm has settled around Regina's shoulders and the nearness of his body is making her feel steadier in her own skin than she has felt in a long time.

"I have an early meeting tomorrow," she says, an edge of regret bleeding into her soft tone. She has finished her ice cream and is toying with her wadded up napkin between middle finger and thumb.

"Then we should get you home," Robin says.

She nods, but does not move. "What about you? Early start?"

"Well, with a four-year-old, even weekends start early, never mind Wednesdays."

"True."

His fingers stroke her shoulder. "But, more of a late night, actually," he continues. "Once we're finished here, I'm afraid I'm on duty with the night van for a few hours. Driving around, finding any kids who need somewhere safe to sleep tonight."

"Tonight?" Regina shifts beneath his arm, facing him more fully. "Robin, you should have been sleeping. Why didn't you say?"

His smile is easy. "Because this is right where I wanted to be."

Her return smile is hesitant and a little admonishing, but his admiration is so pure and open she finds she is powerless to the radiant warmth.

Robin hails them a cab and the growing physical comfort has Regina scooting much closer against Robin's side in the backseat than on the ride out. She rattles off her address to the driver and the trip seems to take half the projected time.

As they pull up in front of her building, Regina reaches out first to pay the driver. Robin tries to stop her, but she says simply, "You paid for the ice cream."

Standing on the street, fingers lightly entwined, Regina scans the length of the sidewalk, then meets Robin's gaze beneath the streetlight and says, "Come upstairs with me? Just to my door." He nods, "Of course," and she continues, "I want a few more minutes with you, but there are a couple of buildings on this block with paparazzi-worthy residents. The flies tend to hover here and grab shots of whatever they can. I'd rather not linger."

"As the lady wishes," Robin says. His free hand waves away the cab, then gestures gallantly to Regina to guide her path.

Regina smirks and leads the way. She nods to the boy at the front desk, unable to make herself let go of Robin's hand, rumors be damned, and leads them briskly down the back hall to her private elevator.

Robin watches in silence as she punches in her access code. (It used to be Henry's birthday, until Henry got old enough to yell at her for choosing something so lacking in security. Now it is the numerical ranking of Henry's initials in the alphabet). She tightens her fingers around Robin's hand as the elevator doors close and the machinery bumps and grinds to pull them upward.

Robin's fingers caress the back of her hand and the tenderness catches her breath and successfully distracts her from her claustrophobia. "I've had a lovely evening," he says softly. Close. Intimate. Her stomach quivers. Her body is screaming at her to jump this man, take him straight into her penthouse, rip off his clothes, lure him into her bedroom, and ravage him until the morning sun splatters across their skin. But the truth is...she likes him. She really likes him. And that scares her. She wants to do this right.

"As did I," she whispers. She turns and meets his gaze, brown eyes to blue in the intimate space, connected and personal, and the shared smile is night-softened and sweet and the heat warms her chest.

When the elevator doors open, they stroll into the golden-lit hallway and Regina feels free and safe and trembling with hovering possibility. She slows near her door and faces Robin.

He draws a breath and stares her down with deliberate intent. "I'm sorry, this may seem too forward, or too early, but it just needs to be said..."

She frowns, fingers still woven with his. "What?"

"Regina Rossi, you may be...the most beautiful woman I have ever had the privilege to gaze upon up close, much less take on a date."

She nearly snorts out a laugh. "I find that hard to believe, Mr. Archer. You are one of the most attractive men I have seen in a long time. Women cannot be missing that."

Robin scoffs. "Speaking of hard to believe... You work with models. Daily."

"All alike. Too young and too thin and quite often too full of themselves." She takes a half-step closer, moving more on instinct than intellect. "Some of them are closer to my son's age than mine. The designers are older, but they're nearly all gay. Which doesn't make them less attractive, but it does take all the fire out of the flirting. Which leaves me with the old money and the literati crowd left over from my former life with my late husband. My statement stands."

"Ah, well, when you paint my competition so elegantly..."

Regina shakes her head, moves closer until she is growing dizzy from the intoxicating scent of his cologne. _Jesus, how is he doing this to her?_ Her skin tingles and quivers, a physical pull to touch, to taste. "I once dated Robert Redford," Regina breathes, then she charges forward and captures Robin's mouth in a hard and heated kiss. She thinks he was starting to utter a startled, "Are you serious?" but she doesn't care and the notion is lost to hungry lips and tender dampness and a fast-kindling passion.

He seems to want this as much as she. Regina grips the lapels of Robin's suit coat and holds him demandingly close. Robin's hands move, one to her waist, the other into her hair. He cradles her head as he kisses her, and there is a tenderness and a... _reverence_ to the touch that slips past the haze of passion in her mind to register with a pang of deliciously painful emotion. But lust is winning (protecting her, as always), and she lets go of conscious thought, losing herself to the fire and comfort of communicating in touches and tongues and whispered nonsense.

Countless minutes of sensation, French kisses and heavy petting, and Robin's suitcoat is forgotten on the floor. It ends in a breathless break and lightly touching foreheads.

"I'm going to say goodnight right here," Regina says, voice hoarse and throaty.

Robin's only reply is a slightly cracked laugh she cannot quite interpret. Incredulity? Her tone certainly mismatched with her words.

"It's just...I like you. So, I don't...

He frowns, tightens his fingers where they rest comfortingly on her hip. "You don't what?"

"I don't...want to mess this up. Or...cheapen it. This is going well. At least...I think it is, from my side."

His smile is all tenderness and warmth and it soothes her quiet insecurities. He brushes her hair from her face with two gentle fingers. "It's going very well," he confirms.

"Let's keep it that way."

"Whatever you're comfortable with. I don't want anything you don't want. I never will."

She offers a fleeting smile and pushes away the images that flicker at the edges of her vision.

"We haven't moved," she says after a moment.

"We have not," he confirms.

Regina draws a deep breath, then forces a step back. She pushes an open hand against Robin's chest to keep him in place. The void is a visceral and aching thing. "Good night, Robin."

He nods, ever the gentleman. "Good night, Regina. Sweet dreams."

Her fingers are already on the keypad for her door when she turns and says, "Robin?"

"Yes?"

"There will be."

"Will be what?"

"Another day. Date."

The roguish smile on his well-kissed lips strains her resolve. Dammit, why couldn't she just _be_ that tabloid slut for tonight? "Indeed there will. I'll text you tomorrow," he says simply.

She has the door open and one foot across the threshold, when Robin's hand catches her wrist and in a whirl of motion she is back in his arms and his lips are hot and strong on hers and she is kissing back with all she is worth. Her body ignites and burns down to her toes. There is strength and power and determination in this gentle man and oh, God, it takes out her knees. And then he's gone. Two feet away from her and it feels like two thousand.

"Just for your dreams," he says, and that impish grin is back, and she is holding onto the doorframe and can muster nothing but a breathless exhale in lieu of a witty reply.

"Good night, Robin," she says, at last.

She leans on the inside of her closed door until the room stops spinning.

So royally fucked.

*****

(end Chapter 4)


End file.
